Daughter Of The Slums
by iimprobableone
Summary: Molly Hooper - or Milo Hooper - is masquerading as a man in Victorian Britain. A daughter of the slums, she survives on the money she makes selling the items that she pickpockets. One day, she steals the wrong thing from the wrong man - Sherlock Holmes. After being caught, injured, she's taken in temporarily by the Watson's until they can find what she stole. VICTORIAN AU SHERLOLLY
1. Watch Your Pockets - Pocket-Watch

**1**

 **A/N: Welcome! To just set a scene, Molly is a little younger than she normally is, however she lies about her age throughout this, so even I'm not sure the exact age. This also twists the timeline a little, as it happens just after Scandal In Belgravia, however John and Mary are already married. Enjoy!**

* * *

Molly came tearing through the calm, like a cat straight out of hell.

Clinging onto her flat-cap – which was threatening to fly off at the speed - as she raced through the masses. The pavement was pristine and the buildings were snow white, the black glossy fences a stark contrast.

A chorus of police whistles sounded out behind her around the corner. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, feet light on the ground as they flew. Her boots were tough leather, cobbled heels in the rigid wood to make them last longer. Clad in torn garb (tweed jacket and matching trousers held up by suspenders and a white shirt tucked scruffily inside) her hazel eyes dart around, pausing, before deciding on a route.

Pushing through a group of women in colourful dresses and feathers in their hair, she clambers up onto a rickety barrel, then to a crate shipped fresh in from somewhere hot in the empire. From here, a leap onto the back of a cart, crashing into the sacks of what felt to be flour.

"There!" A policeman cried, pointing with a baton. "He's on the bloody cart!"

She jumped out and onto the other side of the street, sprinting off.

"Move, move – move!" Elbowing past the crowds.

Still running, the toe of her shoe caught a crack between the slabs of the pavement, and she started forward - and face first into a coat.

Stumbling back, she looked up in shock at the man. His high cheekbones gave him an ethereal air about him, eyes sharp and grey like a northern sky, flecked with colours only seen on the silk of ladies" dresses. A roman nose and a high cupid's bow. He appeared bewildered.

"Move!" She got out, going to run past him.

Then her wrist was caught in a clamp. Molly looked back up in horror, to see that he was looking at her with a disapproving expression. Her chest fluttered in panic.

"Get off – let GO!" She stomped at his shin, and it was enough for a millisecond of relaxation of his hand, allowing her to slip from his grip.

Molly took off back down the street. He took a moment of shock, before turning, and going after her. She was quick for her size, and it could be assumed that she made this a habit.

He saw the realisation in her eyes when she glanced back, to discover him chasing her as well. Her mouth parted in shock, only to have her expression then steel with determination. Going past a stall, she shoved a box out onto the path behind her, only to have him jump straight over. She scowled, took a sudden left, and sped up.

The alleyways were dark, even in the day. The cobbles at her feet were uneven, shards of glass littered about. Coming to a crossroads, she decides on going left, into the back of an inn. The tavern was already rowdy although it was only the middle of the day, and she could hear the muffled roars of what could only be a fight. Molly paces through the stock room, and goes through a door that leads to behind the bar. The pub was smoky and edging on hot with the concentrated body heat flowing through the place, the colours all dark browns of wood and the rusted gold of the brass on the edges of the bar. She ducks under the door of the bar, and into the surging group of men. They were huge and didn't notice her as she shouldered through their ranks, to the toilets.

The toilets were empty, dingy, and stunk to high heaven of every type of bodily fluid you could possibly think of. Light flooded in from small rectangular windows at the top of the wall opposite. The rickety stall doors were clinging to their hinges, and one creaked as she shut it behind her.

Clambering up onto the dirty porcelain toilet, she then hooked her thin fingers up onto the windowsill, and with one move, hauled herself up onto it. Kneeling precautiously, she leant back as she opened it, pushed it open, leaning fully forward half out onto it, and then fell face first into the back alley, the stone rushing to meet her.

She let out a strangled cry of pain, then groaning and curling up a little, snaking her fingers at her ribs, feeling as if they were screaming in agony. Slowly, she rolled onto her back, the bright sky winking at her between towering buildings. A shuddering breath expelled from her, she winces as she tries to sit up. Molly shut her eyes in exasperation, trying to regain control of her breathing.

Too close. That had been too close.

There was a sudden break in the mild warmth from the sun on her face, and her eyes shoot open, heart stuttering.

It was the very same man, staring at her with a curious look, one raised brow.

She half opened her mouth and a squeak of sound got out, before shuffling to the side and back, her back hitting the wall suddenly.

"Are you going to speak first, or shall I?" His voice was like the guttural growl of a pack of stray dogs.

Molly returned this with nothing. The same wary look in her wide eyes, slowly growing aggressive.

He sighed. "Not one for pleasantries, then. Good." He smiled, and it was probably nothing, but to her, it felt like the world. "We'll get on splendidly." He held out a hand, palm up, to her.

His fingers were thin and long and they looked strong, but at the same time possessed a certain kind of finesse, and were meticulously clean and well looked after, no dirt under his fingernail.

She went to take his hand.

"I trust you will return what you took from me?"

Molly froze, and looked back up at him. He was still smiling, but this time there was a glint of consequence in his eyes.

"I han't taken nothing, Sir."

His brow creased. "So you have taken _something_ , then."

"No, I-" Molly stood up, and he stepped back, as she dusted herself off. "Look, I'll put in terms someone like you might understand. It Is not a possibility that I have taken anything that is yours from your person."

"That's better. However, I'm more concerned with the pocket-watch that you stole from me yesterday than your grammar."

"Yesterday? Yesterday I were somewhere you never been."

His face lost all hint of good humour, now a look of mild disdain shining through. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

There was no way. There was no way it had been him, was there?

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about." She said, through gritted teeth.

The man let out a heavy sigh, as if put upon. "I really didn't want it to come to this, truly," He reached into his inside breast pocket, and produced a pistol.

Molly's eyes widened and she pressed back into the wall.

"Give me it back."

"I don't have it!"

" _Now!_ "

The man pulled the safety off, and what happened next was all a blur of motion. Molly pushed the pistol up and it fired, shattering the window she had escaped from. In the sudden surprise of it all she shot off, back the way she had come. This time it was a hotter pursuit, and her entire body ached, her bottom left rib in particular. Was it broken?

Her hands grazing the walls, she appeared back out onto the street. Everyone was looking in her direction, their attentions drawn by the gunshot.

Pausing for a moment, hanging her head to draw a breath, she took a step out into the main street –

And was then thrown forward by the force of a brick wall colliding into her, throwing her out onto the road.

"WHERE IS IT?!" He cried, as he flipped her over, straddling her down completely on the floor.

"I'm being harassed!" She cried, "Someone-"

"No, you're a criminal, and I'm apprehending you! I'm a detective, it's sort of what I do!"

She struggled as he pinned her wrists harshly to the road. Everything was silent apart from the sounds of their scuffle.

"Get off! Get off get off get off!"

"Give me back my pocket-watch or I'll take you straight to the Met!"

"I haven't done anything wrong!" She winced at the power it took to shout back, piercing at her chest. "You got the wrong man, honest!'

"You-!"

"Holmes? HOLMES!"

Another man's voice, and her assailant froze, straightened up.

"Holmes, what on Earth do you think you're doing?"

A relatively small man with a chunky greying moustache, tweed suit and a bowler hat came rushing out to them.

"Ah, Watson." 'Holmes' pulled a forced smile, obviously still angry. "This is-"

"Don't introduce us! For God's sake, what are you doing, making a spectacle of yourself, forcing this b-" His eyes widened on studying her further. "Dear God…"

"I know, he looks like he's barely hit twelve, and yet here he is, stealing."

"Holmes, that is not a-"

"Could I go, please?" Her breathing was shallow and quick; deep breaths were more pain than they were worth. "Sorry, I'm just not that interested in hearing either of you talk."

"Silent, you overgrown urchin." Holmes addresses her, before turning back to Watson. "This boy stole my pocket-watch yesterday, Watson. It was only by a magnificent stroke of luck that I managed to stumble across him."

"How did she steal your pocket-watch?"

Holmes frowned. "She?"

Watson went to open his mouth, but before he could speak – "John!" A woman rushed over, holding the skirts of her dress as she did. Her blonde hair was tucked inside a dark blue silk bonnet, which matched her dress. "John, what's this all commotion about?"

"Mary, -"

"Mr Holmes! Whatever are you doing – Oh, is that a criminal?" She gestured to Molly, who could do nothing but resign herself, rolling her eyes and looking away.

"Very observant." He smiled. "That is the normal reaction, Watson."

"She's bleeding." Watson took an annoyed breath. "Did _you_ do that?"

"Hm? Oh, no, he fell out the window. Why are you insisting on using the wrong pronouns? Is it some sort of new trend?"

"The police'll be here soon." Watson stated. "Make a decision, Holmes."

Although he was addressing his friend, he was looking directly at her. "We'll go to your house, Watson. He's got a broken rib. You, in exchange for medical attention, will give me back what you stole. Do we have a deal?"

She stared at him silently, dark eyes deep with malice, before looking away, muttering a; "Fine."

"Right." He said, as he got off her and stood, dusting himself off. "Stand up."

Molly stood, watching as he took out a pair of handcuffs. She hadn't felt as much humiliation in her life, as she was arrested by a strange man in the middle of a street, filled with murmuring onlookers.

"Lead the way, Watsons."

* * *

Holmes shoved her inside as the townhouse door opened. A housemaid rushed to the door as they all entered.

"Mr and Mrs Watson, I- oh!" Molly cast her dark gaze to the maid, who appeared thoroughly shocked at her presence, even existence.

"Annabelle dear, fetch me the first aid, would you?" Mrs Watson asked.

"Who's that?" She asked.

"Just get the first aid!" Mr Watson cried impatiently.

" _Alright_ , no need to shout, Sir." She muttered, as she turned and hurried off.

"Go to the kitchen."

Her condition had worsened. Molly's head felt heavy on her shoulders and it throbbed in pain with every heartbeat. A black eye had started to appear and blood pulsed from a cut running across the side of her face.

Holmes felt no empathy, however, as he roughly guided her through the hallway into the kitchen. Inside it smelled of lavender and fresh bread, and flowers sat on the wooden table in the airy room. Molly's mouth started to water heavily.

"Help her onto the table."

"It's a _he_ , Watson." Holmes said, as he put his hands on her hips and lifted her up with ease, setting her on the table. "Granted, a rather prepubescent looking one, but a boy, nonetheless. You can thank malnourishment of the lower classes for that."

"Fine." Watson steeled his jaw. "Right, you, what's your name?"

"Hooper."

"You first name?"

"Milo. Milo Hooper, sir."

"And your gender?"

"Male, last time I checked."

This only grated him further. "Right. Right." Annabelle set down a wooden box next to Molly on the table.

"John, what's this about?" Mary asked, carefully. Both of them were looking at him as if he'd gone mad.

"Take off your shirt, then."

No one reacted. Holmes was totally disinterested, as Mary went to the first aid box.

"W-what?"

"Well, it needs to be off if we're going to treat you." He smiled darkly, and Molly knew she had been caught out.

"Can't Mrs Watson do it for me in another room?"

"Why?"

"Oh, John, why are you so keen to see this boy take his clothes off?" Mary asked, tone exasperated.

"Come on, do it."

"I don't-"

"Now!"

"John!" Mary cried, outraged. "Calm yourself, would you?" She shook her head, and then looked to Molly. "Come with me. You'll have to excuse my husband; he can be… headstrong."

"Um, yes, okay."

Molly winced off the table as Mary picked up the medical box, and followed her through to the dining room.

"Just sit on the chair."

She nodded noiselessly and did as instructed.

"Now, please take off your shirt. I just need to tend to some bruises, that's all. The only thing that can cure a fractured rib is rest and patience."

"I don't have time nor place for either of those things, Miss."

"You're staying with us until you heal, so that you don't run off. You can share Annabelle's room, as long as you don't steal anything. And don't think we won't notice."

"Course, Miss."

"Right, the shirt, then."

Molly paused, biting her lip. "Um…"

"Oh, don't worry, we're all women here."

She accepted defeat. "You know, too?"

"I'm more observant than I look."

"You don't look much behind the door to begin with, Miss."

"I shouldn't think so, either." Mary laughed.

Molly took off her suit jacket, and then took down her suspenders. Her hands were trembling, and she had only just noticed. "Sorry for the trouble."

"So, did you really steal his pocket-watch?"

"I took one yesterday." She admitted. "I don't see how it could've been his, though."

"How so?"

"Well, I was in an opium den, for starters." She stated, as she started with her buttons.

"Oh, it was him then, for certain." Mary sighed.

Molly paused. "What?"

"He's particularly fond of that stuff, you see."

"Oh? He doesn't seem…" Her gaze went to the door, to the muffled male voices drifting under the gap of the door.

"You'd never guess, I know. He's high functioning."

"That's a funny term."

"It means he can function normally whilst he's in the states he gets himself into. Not that it makes it any better, obviously."

Molly took off her now unbuttoned shirt. Now the only thing that clothed her was a thin white vest. She was a wisp of thing, bones protruding every which way, her chest made flat by the lack of food. Taking this off, she sat slumped and slightly shameful. Mary's warm smile didn't falter once. For some reason, this made Molly want to burst into tears.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before with countless other patients. Now, what's your proper name?" She asked, as she gently pressed her fingers to the bruised area.

"M… Molly, Miss."

"What a pretty name." She murmured. Molly hissed in a breath of sudden pain, as Mary pressed a little harder. "Oops, sorry." Looking down, the bruised area looked like red rust, a patch of speckled roan across her pale skin.

"It serious, Miss?"

"Nothing a bit of rest won't cure. Try to take some deep breaths, as if you don't you could get a chest infection."

The words brought a special kind of horror to Molly. Where she was from, if you had a chest infection, then chances were you were going to catch something more serious and die.

"I'm sorry about this." Molly said. Her eyes were downcast, her voice heavy. She hated being a burden. Weighing someone down. Being weak, being fragile.

"It's no trouble at all. Now, I'll bind your chest only lightly, to allow you to breath properly."

"How come you're so smart, Mrs Watson?"

She laughed. "I'm a doctor in everything but title, Mr Hooper."

Molly smiled, deciding she liked this woman. Mary instructed her to get dressed again, and she did.

Then, it was time for the injuries on her face to be addressed. Annabelle came in with a basin of hot water and a towel. Molly proceeded to wash, and then dry her face.

Mary held a clean white cloth to the mouth of a small bottle, tipped it over once and then set it down.

"What's that?"

"Antiseptic, to make sure the cut on your face isn't infected."

"Anti…"

"It's complicated. And technically, just a theory, but the results speak for themselves." Gently, she pressed the cloth to the cut on her face. It felt as if she was being stung, and Molly quickly pulled away from it.

"Is it supposed to make it hurt _more_?"

"Do you _want_ cholera?"

Molly resigned herself yet again, and stiffened as the substance stung her.

Eventually, they were finished.

"Mrs Watson..." Molly's voice trailed, as Mary put away her paraphernalia.

"Yes?"

"I-I'd appreciate it a lot if you could, if you could maybe, keep this between us?"

Mary paused, and turned to her. "You want me to lie to my husband?"

"I know that it's a lot to ask, but I do this for a reason. It's my protection."

"Protection?"

"Without it, I wouldn't be able to survive where I live. The things that happen to women, Mrs Watson, are unspeakable." Anguish shone through her.

"This'll be our little secret, then. Molly." They smiled at each other.

* * *

"Well? Well?" Watson interrogated, as soon as they left the dining room. "It's a she, isn't it?"

"He's not a she, nor an it." Mary announced.

He faltered. "What?"

Holmes smirked, standing up from his seat. "Told you. I believe it was fourteen shillings, Watson."

"You had a wager on my gender?"

"I betted on my intelligence against his." He chuckled as Watson begrudgingly handed him the wager. "You'll quickly learn that that was the best decision."

"I think you owe our Hooper an apology, John." Mary told her husband, grinning along with Holmes.

"I-!" He sighed, looking to her. "I've very sorry, Hooper. However, it has to be said that you have a very effeminate look about you."

"Not to worry. It's not the first time I've heard that, Sir, and certainly not the last."

"Now that I've fulfilled my end of the deal, it's time you do the same. My pocket-watch; where is it?"

Molly pressed her lips together. "I sold it."

Holmes' face suddenly dropped. "Excuse me?"

"I don't tend to hold onto things for very long." She explained.

"Who did you sell it to?" He pressed.

"There a place that buys… _things_."

" _Stolen_ things?" Watson asked, slightly frustrated. "This is no time to be vague, Hooper."

"I'm not saying nothing. You came to that conclusion on your own. But, that _is_ where it is."

"Where is it?"

"Old Nichol."

These words were followed by complete silence. Even Annabelle stopped, and stared at Molly.

"Right. Your hat and boots, Watson. We shan't be too long."

Mary lurched and grabbed her husband. "John, surely you're not going to go."

"Oh, come now! Mary, we are both armed, capable men. Nothing's going to happen."

"Can't you just get your Irregulars to do it for you, Holmes?" Mary asked.

"Unfortunately, no. They'd most likely be put upon on their return. It has to be me."

"Then let me come." Molly spoke up. "No-one's going to hurt you if I'm there."

Holmes laughed. "Oh, because you're so imposing, aren't you?"

Molly set her teeth. "People know me."

"And that excuses you from being mugged?"

"You won't be able to find it on your own, anyway." She replies.

"Would you care to bet on that?" Holmes leans in slightly.

"Happily." Molly quips. "But, I have to ask, what's so important about that Pocket-watch to you?"

"Am I not allowed to care about my possessions?" He quizzed.

"I'm just saying, it seems strange that you'd go to such a length to get back something as inconsequential as that."

"It's something that has been taken from me. I want it back. That is all that needs to be said on the matter."

"I'll come with you now, and we can be done with the entire matter." Molly resolves. "How does that sound?"

Mary's mouth fell open in outrage. "It sounds counterproductive to your healing, Hooper. Too much movement like that and you could prolong how long you need to stay, and maybe even puncture a lung."

"I'll be fi-"

"See! He'll be fine. Come now, not a moment to lose."

"Holmes! What if her condition goes south? Are you willing to have a boy's blood on your hands?"

He looked blank, as he looked from Mary to Molly, then back to her. "Yes?"

Watson sighs heavily. "Well, Holmes, you'll have to have him lodge with you until he's healed."

"What?" Holmes squawked, as if scandalised.

"Well, he can't stay here."

"Yes he can, John." Mary said. "He can stay with Annabelle."

"With her, in her room? A man and a woman sleeping in the _same_ room? And what are we going to do when we find ourselves with a pregnant housemaid, Hm?"

"I'm not an animal, Sir, I can control myself." Hooper told him.

"It's not you I'm worried about, Hooper."

Her eyes widened, as she looked over at Annabelle, who blushed and looked away, before speaking up. "Sir, whatever you're implying is very insulting."

"The truth is somewhat painful, is it not?"

Annabelle made a noise of grumpy annoyance.

"Also, how should Holmes take care of a boy?" Mary asked. "He's not exactly the fatherliest of men, is he?"

"I'm not a boy; I'm a man. I'm twenty-five years of age, I'll have you know." Molly insisted, standing up a little straighter.

The three took one look at her, and all laughed.

"Age being just a number, in your case, certainly isn't a good thing." Holmes remarked, smirking, causing Hooper to look away with a grunt. "Mary has a point. We can't let him go home, otherwise we'll never see him nor my pocket-watch again."

"So what do we do?" Watson asked.

Silence for a moment.

"We could put him up in the spare room." Mary opted.

"The spare room!" Watson repeated, in disbelief.

"It's very rarely used, and very clean." She replies, staying calm in the face of her husband's constant chaotic mood.

"Hmph, not after _he's_ been in there." Watson gave Molly a sideways look.

"Well he'll have a bath beforehand, won't he?" Mary replied, and then turned to Hooper. "Won't he?"

"He will." They exchanged a smile.

"Oh," He sighed. "Fine. However, if this gets out-"

"Since when have you cared about the street gossip?" Mary asks, amused.

"Why don't I pose as someone else, then?" Hooper suggests. Everyone pauses, and then looks at her.

"That's not a half bad idea." Holmes stated.

"He's right." Watson agreed. "Who should he be, though?"

"A niece?" Mary suggested.

"Of whom? He can't possibly be Harriet's." Watson took a breath, studying Hooper carefully, before his eyes widened in epiphany. "Oh, Holmes…"

"What?" He took a moment to catch on. "No. No. Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Watson quizzed. "You want that pocket-watch back, do you not?"

"Not – I – it'll never be believed, not _my_ brother."

"Won't it?" Watson looks back at Hooper, a twinkle in his eyes. "Mycroft Holmes' lovechild. Quite striking, don't you think?"

"He's not _nearly_ large enough." Holmes remarks.

"It's not a gene thing, it's a cake thing." Watson remarked, causing Holmes to chuckle.

"Fine. However, why wouldn't he be in school? A Holmes man must be educated."

"I don't think we need to delve that deep into it, Holmes." He sounded both exasperated and bemused.

"No, no. It won't do." Holmes shook his head. "If he's going to use the Holmes name, he needs a mind to match."

"And you don't think I have a mind good enough to be able to steal a pocket-watch from you?" Hooper quips, feeling mildly offended.

"That doesn't count." He snaps back. "You basically stole from a corpse. And Jekyll and Hyde weren't that smart, were they?"

Watson processed this, before his mouth parted in shock. "Oh, Holmes, you haven't been-"

"Of course I have been." He says quickly, nonchalant. "How else would I pass the time?"

"Music? Writing? Reading?" Watson suggests.

"I do all of that already. I told you before, I need more."

"I doubt you really have a choice, if what I saw told me anything, Mr Holmes." Molly said.

"Shut up, and have some respect for your uncle." Holmes snaps.

"My uncle's serving life for six stabbings, Sir, so I don't think that I should, actually."

"A thief and a serial killer one generation apart in one family?" He looked mildly impressed. "There must be something in the water."

"On that topic, Hooper, do you have anyone that would be worrying about you if you don't go home tonight?" Mary queries. "A wife, or children?"

"I got none of that, Mrs Watson. Batchelor's life for me."

"Spoken like a true Holmes man." He remarks.

"Won't you stay for dinner, Holmes?" Mary asked. "You look thin."

He drew an apprehensive breath. "I see no reason why not. However, I have to be back for seven."

"What's happening at seven?" Watson asked.

"Oh, nothing. I just want to get home as quickly as possible."

Despite this, the Watsons laughed. "Annabelle, set two more places for dinner tonight. Run a bath first."

"Yes ma'am." She nodded, and then went away to the kitchen.

"You want me to help her, Miss?"

Watson narrowed his eyes at her. "You are after the housemaid, aren't you?"

"No, I-" But then she saw that he was laughing, and relaxed, allowing herself to smile. "You're being far too hospitable. Isn't there anything I could do in return?"

"Well, there is some work in the garden in dire need of doing." Mary muses. "John seems to have been going to do it tomorrow for the last year, so after you're well, you could do that."

"Course, Miss. Soon as I'm well, it's the least I can do." Before anyone could reply, Annabelle popped her head round the door.

"The bath's run, Ma'am."

"Wonderful, thank you Annabelle. Do you need help getting in, Mr Hooper, or are you capable on your own?"

"I should be fine, thank you."

"It's no trouble."

* * *

The bathroom had a pleasant green colour scheme. Although it was apparent that Annabelle was not the best of housemaids – a light layer of dust sat on the windowsill – it was still nicer than anything Molly had ever been in. The bottom half of the walls were white tile, and the top half were a light green, matching with the outside of the roll top bath, with silver claws at its feet. Steam curled up from the hot water, and Molly almost couldn't believe that this was happening. Although it could be considered condescending, at the end of the day, she had been offered warm meals, a warm bath, and a warm bed, all for stealing a pocket-watch. She was expecting to wake up anytime soon.

When her clothes were off, she climbed into the bath. The ache in her muscles and the shooting pain in her fractured rib dulled within a few minutes, and with her hat off her long hair flowed down. After thoroughly scrubbing herself and her hair clean (turning the water slightly darker than before), she was so relaxed; she could have dozed off.

And she did.

An hour later, she suddenly jolted awake to the sound of knocking on the door.

"Hooper? Are you inside?"

"Wha- oh! Oh, I'm-" She cleared her throat, realising that she was talking in her real voice, not the normal, slightly deeper one, that she was constantly putting on. "Sorry, I fell asleep."

"Oh?" Annabelle laughed. "Well, there are some fresh clothes in the spare bedroom waiting for you. Dinner will be in half an hour."

"Th-thank you, miss! Much appreciated."  
She heard a giggle, and then steps away from the bathroom.

Getting out of the bath, she dried herself meticulously, and then drained the water, making sure she hadn't left any remnant of dirt anywhere in the bath or the room, as she folded her raggedy clothes up, wrapped a towel around herself, and then scampered into the room opposite, which luckily was the spare bedroom.

A large double bed with lace décor on the sheets sat with its head touching the left side on the bedroom, opposite a roaring fire, a wooden mantelpiece housing flowers and various ornaments. The wallpaper was a pleasant patterned baby blue with patterned gold, and the curtains were white, and flowed down to meet the heavily waxed wooden floor, between these curtains and underneath the window was a dressing table. There was a dark oak wardrobe in the left hollow of the right-hand wall, and two matching bedside tables on either side of the bed. It was growing dark outside now, and the last of the light streamed in.

She paused on seeing the clothes. Brown-tinted tweed trousers, which matched the blazer and the waistcoat, and a white shirt and tie for underneath. Molly manoeuvred with relative ease, and found that the binding of her ribs and chest came in particularly handy, as it repressed what little breasts she had.

Looking at herself in the full-length mirror, half-dressed, wearing trousers and a shirt neatly inside, she looked every part the gentleman – however feminine and skinny the gentleman may look. A mix of warmth and emptiness filled her. It didn't satisfy her to dress as a man, not one bit. She would do anything to wear a dress, and be a proper lady. However, if she wanted to be independent, respected, and deemed capable, she would have to masquerade as something she was not. It was strange.

Then, something occurred to her. Her hair. She searched for a hat, searched the wardrobe, and found nothing. Swearing under her breath, she looked around, and saw a hair set on the dresser. A silver, ornate set, which featured a paddle hairbrush, a smaller one, a mirror, and a large pair of scissors.

Setting down her old shirt on the floor at her feet with one deep breath, she took the scissors to her hair. Long damp brown locks fell to the floor, and with each cut of scissors, she felt her heart sink a bit more. Turning her head in the mirror and using the small handheld mirror as well, she eventually managed to get it neat, and even looking nice, and stylish. It was thick because it had been allowed to the length it had once been, and it made her face look almost fairy-like, dainty features, a small nose and thick eyelashes. But once you looked at her whole body, it was hard to distinguish a gender. Molly could be passed as either-or, it was the way she held herself, how she walked, talked, and ate, which distinguished her gender.

Once that was done, she picked up her shirt from the ground, and emptied her hair into the fire. After she had made sure that there was no hair sticking to her, she turned, and looked at the tie hanging on the rail in the open wardrobe. It mocked her silently.

Deciding she was going to attempt it, she approached, and put it round her collar, before fumbling with it for a few minutes. However, it was clearly useless. Every result she got looked idiot, like a two-year-olds handiwork.

 _Idiot. You're an idiot. You can't do anything right, you're useless. You can't even do the easiest of tasks. You may as well just get changed back into your old clothes and leave. You're not anything compared to these people. Uneducated, uncivilised, scum of the earth. Do you even recognise yourself in the mirror? Who is that?_

The lump in her throat from when she had been cutting her hair arose again, this time choking her. Tears started to blur her vision, feeling completely worthless. It was a stupid thing to get so upset about, but the events that had unfolded were completely and utterly surreal, and it had thrown her off completely. In a way, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Then, there was a knock at the door, and it opened.

"Dinner's-" Everything about Holmes faltered, as he saw her expression. "Hooper, are you… are you alright?"

Although no tears had fallen, her face was flushed with emotion, and her eyes shone with it. "Yes, yes," She looked away. "I'm quite fine, thank you. I'll – um,"

"Have you never done a tie before?" He asked, and she stopped fidgeting completely. Silently, Holmes shut the door behind him, and slowly walked over, standing in front of her. "Well?"

She looked up at him, as her eyes started to dry. "No, I'm having a bit of trouble."

"Well, that's hardly a reason to get upset, is it?"

"I wasn't upset. It was the bath, it made my eyes water."

He laughed quietly, now smiling, as he reached out for her tie. "I'll show you."

She hadn't noticed before, but he smelled like aftershave and tobacco and old books. It was strange how someone's scent told you everything you needed to know. Molly watched his face silently as he started to do her tie.

"You start with the wide end of it on the right, twelve inches below the narrow end on the left should suffice. Cross the wide end over the narrow end. Turn the wide end back underneath the narrow end." The way he murmured, it almost sounded like he was talking to himself. "The bring the wide end back over in front of the narrow end again. Then, pull the wide end up and through the loop around your neck. Hold the front of the knot loosely with your index finger and bring the wide end down through the front loop. Finally, remove your finger and tighten the knot carefully to the collar by holding the narrow end and sliding the knot up. There." His smile reappeared, as if particularly impressed, admiring his work. "See?"

A beat of silence that stretched further than it should. His eyes seemed so many colours the true shade was indistinguishable, and it was all too easy to get lost in them.

She quickly looked away. "Thank you."

"It's nothing." He cleared his throat. "Now, put on your waistcoat and blazer, your dinner's getting cold."

* * *

The meal was unlike anything she had seen so close before. It was presented with proper shiny cutlery and a pristine plate, and three course. She had been wary at first, but eventually, had let loose, and devoured the entire thing. Now feeling a little sick from over-eating, it was quarter to seven.

"Well, I shall take my leave." Holmes announced, sat in the living room on an armchair, as Watson sat next to Mary, and Molly herself in another armchair.

"I trust I'll see you tomorrow, Holmes?" Watson asked after him, as they all made their way into the hallway.

"Maybe. I have no arrangements or cases. And I have something to drop off."

"Jolly good." Watson nodded, "Till tomorrow."

"Till tomorrow!" They shook hands.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes." Mary said, as he kissed her cheek.

"Goodnight, Mr Hooper." He outstretches a hand, which Molly takes. "Or, Mr Holmes. Have a swift recovery. Also, my apologies for attacking you today."

"If it makes it any better, I'm just as sorry for stealing from you yesterday."

"Well, it'll be even when you get it back for me. Goodbye, everyone." With this, he turned, opened the door, and left.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! If you have the time please leave a review!**


	2. What's In A Nickname?

**2**

 **A/N:**

 **Thanks for the love on this, it's really encouraging!  
Just so there's no lost-in-translation regarding the value of money: 1 Pound back in the 1890's would be around £300 in today's money.  
Also, if anyone cares, the passage she's reading is the very first paragraph of Jane Eyre!  
**

* * *

Molly's sleep was fitful, and the comfort of the bed was completely wasted on her. She dreamt of flames licking at her and eventually eating her whole, and when she awoke, she could still feel the ghost of their tongues.

Taking a deep breath, she grimaced at the shattering feeling in her chest. Molly looked to her left, and saw that the clock read half past seven in the morning. The white curtains were swollen with the light they housed.

She realised that the Watson's must have their own bathroom, as there was no sign of anyone using it periodically. She washed her face and brushed her teeth, and then went to get dressed into the suit she had been given last night.

When Molly arrived downstairs, she was greeted by the smell of food waltzing through the house. Following her nose to the kitchen, she found Annabelle hurrying with the plates and food.

"You need help any with that?"

She jumped at her voice. "Mr Hooper!" Annabelle put a hand to her heart, smiling ruefully. "Oh, you scared me."

Molly smiled warmly. "Sorry about that. Really, though, anything I can do?"

"Well, I'm not sure if the Mistress would approve of me letting a guest help."

"Rubbish." She dismissed the notion. "If she wants a word with you, I'll take all of the blame."

"Oh, ok." A flush crept up Annabelle's face. "Well, you could set the tables."

"Already done." She said, as she took the plates from her. Molly finished this quickly, complete with glasses and cutlery. She fought through the nipping pain every so often.

"Anything else?"

"Well, are you allowed outside?"

"I'm not a prisoner. Or, at least, not to my knowing." Molly smiled. She thought it was a bit strange how Annabelle acted around her, as if she was scared, and wanted to make her feel more at ease.

"Could you be a dear, then, and fetch The Strand from the Spar on Elms Mews? Mr Watson likes to read it on a morning, he takes it with his breakfast." Annabelle handed her the money.

Molly left, realising that she could make a run for it. For some reason, it didn't seem all that appealing. After all, she was living in excess, compared to what she was used to. Even if it was for a short amount of time, it beat going back home with a few half-pennies.

Molly walked relatively slowly back to the house. It seemed that the biting pain grew worse when confronted with exercise, and her shallow breathing meant that she was always a bit short of energy. As she did, she thought to take a look at the newspaper. Although it might as well have been a foreign language to her, the pictures usually sufficed to tell her anything important, as juvenile as it was. The first page held nothing of interest, just something scare-mongering about the socialists. However, in the corner, something caught her eye. A black profile of a man, with a familiar nose and chin. He wore what seemed to be a deerstalker, a pipe in his mouth, and wore a long coat. It must be him, there was no doubt about it. Trying to read the title of the section, she could make out the word 'Holmes'. So he had his own article?

As she reached the house, the trotting of a horse-drawn cab stopped, and the black door of it opened. From it, sprang an energetic Mr Holmes, clad in a top hat and a grey houndtooth check pattern, and was smoking a calabash pipe. He only wore two out of three of his trademarks today, then. A small hint of disappointment got to her, at the fact she was not getting the full package, whatever it was in the first place. He looked around and paid the driver.

"Are you the new paperboy, Hooper?" He asked, seeming to be in good humour, taking his pipe from his mouth in order to speak.

"It'd seem that way, Holmes." She smiled. "What brings you here so early?"

"I have something for you." He patted at the breast pocket of his caped coat, as he passed her. She felt almost overwhelmed with how much vigour he had, even at this time of day.

"For me?" She asked, following him through the front door.

Annabelle appeared at the end of the hallway, eyes widening on seeing the new arrival.

"Mr Holmes, let me take your coat." She said, then doing exactly that. "Will you be having breakfast here, sir?"

"Oh, no."

"Alright." She nodded.

"How's the brother, Annabelle?"

"Good, thanks, Sir. The restaurant's busier than ever."

"Oh, brilliant. Tell Angelo I said hello."

Annabelle grinned in response, and Molly frowned.

"Annabelle and Angelo?" She asked.

"They were brought up with different sides of their families." He explained. "Only met each other five years ago, after Annabelle hired me to find him for her."

"That must have been a task, to find one man in the whole of London." She couldn't help but think that it sounded like it was straight out of some penny dreadful.

"It's a small world, you'd be surprised. Are you settling in here, then?" Mr Holmes asked, as he made his way to the dining room.

"No. Not making myself comfortable, Sir, don't worry about that."

He smiled, but said nothing more, then, stopped suddenly, turning on his heels just before the dining room door. "You did your tie this morning, I see."

"Oh, um…" She pressed her lips together. "Actually, I just loosened it last night, and then put it back on this morning."

He laughed. "You don't trust yourself?"

"Not yet, Sir. I haven't got much use for it in the long-term, anyway."

"Oh," For some reason, he deflated a little at this. "Yes, well, let's see them, shall we?"

When they entered, they found Mary and John conversing energetically on a subject. When they came in, it stopped dead in its tracks.

"Holmes, you're up early." Watson remarked.

"Oh, not really. I didn't sleep in the first place."

"You never change." Watson shook his head. "Hooper, your breakfast's going cold." He stated.

"Sorry, Sir. I was just out getting your morning paper."

"Finally!" He cried, as if that was what he had been hoping for, as she approached her seat on the other side of him, opposite Mary, and set it down on the table. "For all we know, a war may have broken out."

"Not to worry, I don't think Mycroft's been too busy." Holmes remarked. This made no sense to Hooper, but made the Watsons smile.

"What are you here for, anyway?" John asked.

"A warm welcome. I simply came to check he hadn't run away in the night." Holmes gestured to Hooper, who was just beginning her breakfast, as he sat down in the seat next to Mary.

"Couldn't you have just sent a telegram?" Watson asked, as he put a forkful of bacon into his mouth.

"Couldn't you be a little happier to see me, Watson?" Holmes' head cocked to the side.

"How's the rib, Mr Hooper?" Mary asked. "Any progress?"

"A bit, yes." She allowed. "I think I'll be fine to go to the Old Nichol today."

"Shall we go now, then?" Holmes asked.

"No!" Mary insisted. "Just a few more hours, to let it rest, at the least."

Holmes sighed. "Did you know she was this stubborn when you married her, Watson?"

The couple smiled at each other. "Yes, I did." He replied.

Holmes rolled his eyes, put his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm, looking away, face full of nothing but disdain. Obviously, he wasn't one for romance, and Molly laughed, finding the whole scene amusing.

"Entertain your niece to pass the time, won't you?" Watson suggested, sensing his friend's mood. "I won't have my Saturday ruined by the likes of your sour moods."

"And how might I entertain him, Watson? Sing him a _song_?" He flailed his hand dramatically.

"You could start by acknowledging his presence." Molly remarks, addressing herself in third-person, mouth full of food. "That'd be nice."

"Manners maketh the man, Hooper." Holmes announced, referring to her talking with a mouthful.

 _Good thing I'm not a man, then._

"Would that make you a woman, Holmes?" She quipped.

This caused Watson to erupt with a sudden laughter, Holmes' brow creasing at her.

"Actually, I know something we can do." He said.

"What?" Molly asked.

"Come on. Sitting room." Holmes ordered. "Now."

"Why?" It seemed she was full of questions today.

"Let the boy finish his breakfast, Holmes." Mary said, laughing.

"No, it's fine, I'm done." She said, swallowing the last of her scrambled egg. "Thank you for the meal."

"You're welcome."

* * *

"What did you want?" Molly asked, half feeling a little apprehensive.

"Sit." He points to the small table at the window, with two seats opposite each other.

She did as she was told, although still thoroughly confused. "What did you want to do?"

Holmes sat opposite her. "I have this for you." He produced a small book from his pocket, and set it on the table. "It's about ties."

What she had previously said came back to haunt her. "Oh. Okay." A tense clamp of awkwardness threatened to seize her.

"Do you want it?" Holmes asked.

Molly was completely thrown off by him. He was direct to the point of bluntness. "Uh, I-"

"Well?"

"I think that you should keep it." She opted for, attempting to keep her words and tone democratic.

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

"Yes. Well, it's not an awful lot of use to me, is it? I'm sure it'd be better off in your hands."

"Because you can't read?"

"What?" Holmes simply leaned forward as her eyes widened. "That's a bit rude, isn't it?"

"That's my speciality."

"Being rude?" Molly struggled with the idea of this man being so difficult, and taking both pleasure and pride in being so.

"Well, I say speciality, it's more of a talent, really."

"As gifted as you are, Mr Holmes-"

"I'll teach you, if you want to." He said it as casually as someone might discuss the weather.

"I never said I couldn't." She insisted.

"Oh! So you can, then."

Molly paused. "Yes, of course."

He smiled slyly, and stood up, going over to the bookshelf, and looked as if he was selecting the most complicated looking one he could. Mr Holmes dropped it down on the wood of the table with a thud.

"You could read me a page out of that, then?"

"Well, yes, I _could_ , but – but I won't, because I don't have to prove anything to you." She put on a pigheaded expression.

"Oh, let go of your pride, would you?" He sounded a little bored. "It's an empty vessel."

"Empty – what's that supposed to mean?"

"You should _read_ the definition in the dictionary if you want to find out, shouldn't you?" He leaned in, challengingly.

"This is totally patronising." Her wilful nature was starting to shine through. "I won't be told what's what by the like so you."

"The likes of me?"

She narrowed her eyes, now fully irritated with his semantics. Molly refused to be his entertainment. "An upper-class toad who wasn't worked a day in his life."

"So you're a socialist? Oh, Watson shall be just _thrilled_ to hear!" He turned and went to walk away. "I'll go tell him the good news right now."

"Holmes!" She cried after him, and then, sighed. "Alright, you win. I… I can't read."

"There." He turned on his heels, back to her. "Was that so hard?"

Molly grumbled as he sat back down. "You don't have to be so pompous about it."

"You'll get used to it. Now, can you read me the first paragraph of this?" He opens the book on the table, and turns it, then pushing it towards her.

Molly felt like a child around him. Dwarfed by whatever it is that he was, that glaring brilliance, that you could only gawk at, but never touch, the sun to someone who had only ever know intellectual darkness. It was infuriating, and she had only known him for – well, not even twenty-four hours.

"Okay." Molly took a deep breath. "The-re was no… of tay- taking a walk that day." Her reading was slow and painful, like a machine abandoned for years only just being turned on again, the cogs dripping with rust. "We, had, been wan- wan," She gave up on that word. "Indeed, in, the… I'm not sure what those say."

"Keep at it."

"Right." She cleared her throat. "An h-our," She pronounced the H in hour. "in, the, mor-ning; but sink… since dinner, Mrs. Reed, when, there, was no… comp-any, din ed – dined ear lie… early?" By this time, Molly's face was practically glowing with a blush. She felt her cheeks burning with unadulterated humiliation. "The, cold, wint-er, wind," She prononounced it as in 'winding up' instead of the weather kind. "Had bro… bro ugh?"

"Brought." He corrected, no emotion in his voice.

"Yes, obviously." Molly nodded to herself. "With it clouds, so… so umb?"

"Sombre."

"Sorry. And, a rain, so, pe- pene… trating," She said it like the 'trat' of the word traitor. "That furt-her out-door, exerkis? Oh, exercise. Was, now… er, out of, the, qu-es-tion."

Shame weighed heavily upon her, mortification leaving her on the verge of shaking. His undivided attention made her feel as if he was mocking her, like she was there to make him feel smarter. She didn't dare to look at him, instead focusing on the table.

"We'll start with the alphabet, then." His voice was completely even, neither amused nor annoyed.

"I don't see why you need to bother." Her voice was muffled from behind her hand, looking away, with a strange feeling that a storm was brewing within her, and without some patience it would break through and she could easily storm the entire building powered with what she felt.

"I think you've just given me a perfectly good reason."

"Look," Her eyes were a black fire when they locked with his. "I'm no charity case. I don't need your pity."

He blinked. "You don't have my pity. I just think that somewhere in your upbringing, something has gone disastrously wrong, and I want to right that wrong."

A twinge of anger pulled at her. "Why? I hardly think you should be preaching about righting wrongs, when you're the one wasting away on cocaine on the regular."

"As cutting as that is, I don't know why. It's more of a question of why not. Really, what have you got to lose?"

"I won't know you for long, so what's the point? I'll find this watch for you, and then we'll go our separate ways."

"A boy as light-fingered as you must be able to make some money doing odd-jobs for people." It seemed that Holmes' pipe had run out of tobacco, and he set it on the table. "If you were to come work for me, I'm sure you'd earn tenfold whatever you're making at the moment."

"Oh, so you're a crook?" Molly was a touch confused. "That it?"

He laughed. "Anything but. Sometimes, if you want to get results, you have to use the path not-so-righteous."

"You don't strike me as particularly righteous in the first place, Sir." Her look of annoyance had transformed into a shy knowing smile, without her even knowing.

"Then you're observant, Hooper." Her smile grew, but then, she remembered herself. Molly made sure to assert herself as a full manly man with a guttural clearing of her throat (open-mouthed), and cracking her knuckles.

"Although, we may have to work on your table manners."

"One thing at a time, eh?"

He laughed, and it sounded just like what she imagined chocolate tasted like. Deep and velvety, with a certain trademark rumble. Now confused at herself – _What am I now, a poet?_ \- she folded her arms.

"Pray, why were you running from the police when we met?" He asked, and steepled his fingers in front of him, his eyes boring into hers. If it didn't look like they were both men, it could have easily been considered as edging on inappropriate.

"Hm?" She snapped out of her reflection. "Just the usual."

"The _usual_?"

"Oh, stealing." She shrugged her delicate shoulders. "It's a lifestyle."

"You can't be very good, if you keep getting caught."

She laughs. "I don't steal anything that people need. I just take the excess. Like your pocket-watch. I steal things like jewellery and paintings and over-stuffed wallets. But those are the hardest to steal. The fact that I haven't been hung yet means that I'm _excellent_."

Holmes stared at her for a moment. "Charles Dickens would have had a field day with you, Hooper." He looked thoroughly amused with her. Narrowing his eyes, almost playfully, he leaned in, and lowered his voice. "What was it you took, then?"

"Well, really it was a fight that got me into trouble."

"What over?"

"Does it matter?" She stood up slowly. "Come on, let's go get that pocket-watch back."

He raised a brow. "But Mary-"

"We'll sneak out now." She suggested, quickly. "I'm sure she'll get over it. You do want it back, don't you?"

He paused, thinking, before getting up himself. "Alright."

Something about his demeanour told her that he wasn't used to being told what to do.

They quietly walked out of the house, and as Holmes buttoned up his coat, Molly hailed a cab.

* * *

It had gotten louder as they approached the Old Nichol. Jumping down the steps of the cab, she waited for Holmes, who paid the driver, and then got off himself.

"Which way, then?" He asked.

The chatter was paramount. It was a busy Saturday on the high street, and market stalls lined the pavements of the wide street (which was too crowded to let any horses pass), and it would be tough to get through all of the people. All sorts were there, from the old men and women to the little children, dressed in rags and darting through the people undetected, looking for a pocket to pick. The shops were just as bustling, and people shouted out of top floor windows.

"This way." She opted for the left, slipping through in between the buildings and the people. Sellers directed their calls at her and Holmes, as it seemed clear from the way they were dressed that they had the most money. "Keep an eye on yourself, Holmes." She warned.

He ignored her. "So, this fight you got caught in, was it over a lady-friend?"

"Lady-? Oh, no, nothing like that. I'm not too interested in any sort of relationship."

"Well, it would appear that we have more in common than I first thought. I must ask, though, why it is you feel that way?"

"I have an inkling that a woman would be more than disappointed with me if I was to ever marry." She tried not to laugh at the thought of a wife discovering on her wedding night that her husband was, in fact, another woman.

"Why would that be?"

"Do you always ask this many questions?"

"Only when I don't know the answer to them – which isn't very often. So it's-"

A sudden gunshot rung out, and everything quikly dissolved into chaos, as if the relative peace from before had been hanging by a spider's thread.

The people around them swarmed and screamed and ran away from the sound, women holding up their skirts and men grabbing onto children, picking them up and taking them to safety as they started to cry. A pang of dread hit Molly.

"We need to move."

"What?"

"Come on!" Molly cried, taking a hold of Holmes' wrist and dragging him away, starting to run.

"What was that?"

She didn't answer, just kept running. He quickly caught up with her, and she let go of him. Eventually they reached a snicket that looked to snake between the back of two rows of cramped tenant houses, lines of raggedy washing sailing like flags of the disenchanted in the wind over them."

"We'll have to go round the back way."

"Are they gangs?"

"Looks to me to be Limehouse Forty and Hoxton High-Rips."

The two groups that were the only ones left in the deserted main street now charged at one another. It was more than just an angry brawl – you could see that it _meant_ something. There was real anger being expressed, and whether it was truly directed at each other or something higher, she didn't know. But Molly did know she wasn't going to stick around to find out. Heavy fists connected heavily with jaws, teeth flew out of mouths and blood poured out of noses.

"They're just thugs knocking the last of each other's brains out. Come on."

Molly turned, and she took a step away, and she was so close to escape, when –

"Oi, Mellow Milo!" A tall, young man shouts out, blood slipping from his hairline down the side of his face and running along his strong jaw, bruises appearing around his dull green eyes. "Voice break yet?"

She cleared her throat, a wave of anxiety dragging her under its tide. "Dunno," Molly shouted back. "Your mum's shift at the bordello end yet? I were just on my way to visit her."

"You little runt!" He growled, and started running over.

"Fuck!" She hissed.

Before he could get anywhere near Molly, the man was met by a punch from Holmes. From the force of the punch and the speed he was running at, he flew straight back onto the ground.

"Fuck!" Molly repeated, "What did you do that for?" She half-shouted at him, incredulity painting her dramatic.

Holmes frowned, turning to her, mirroring her disbelief. "Some gratitude wouldn't go amiss!"

"Out the way." She pushed him to the side and went over to the man, groaning in pain on the floor. "You alright, mate?"

"I will be in a bit." Molly visibly struggled as she helped him back up. "Christ, was that you?" He asked, rubbing the side of his head. As he was stood up, he pulled Molly into a bear hug. "I haven't seen you for days, I thought the worst!"

"Anyone'd think you were my mum." She said, voice muffled.

"Do you know this man?" Holmes asked from beside her, as he let her go. Oscar sized him up, slightly surprised and off-put by the aristocratic look that the detective possessed.

"He's my _friend_. I don't know about where you're from, but we tend not to punch our friends round here, Holmes. This is…" She frowned, and looked up at Holmes. "Wait, what IS your name?"

"You don't even know his name?" He probed, incredulous. "Now people really _are_ gonna think you're a rent-boy."

"Oscar!" She exclaimed, a blush creeping up her face.

Holmes was surprised for a second at the use of a first name to another man (so intimate it toed the line between deeply close friends and lovers, most times favouring the latter), but then shook it off, and smiled. "The name's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

Oscar's mouth dropped. "Sherlock bleedin' Holmes?! Round these ends? You lost, mate?"

" _That_ is the normal reaction, Hooper." Holmes stated, feeling quite pleased with infamous self, Oscar laughed. It was strange, that the man with a bleeding face was quite so merry. Only moments ago he had been slamming someone's teeth out of their mouth.

"We were just on our way to Liza's. You alright?" She gestured to the fight behind him, growing hotter every moment.

"Yeah, we're fine. Just the High-Rips been sticking their noses where they ain't wanted again." He took out an off-grey handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the blood off his face. "You're free to join in, if you want."

"You know Gangland's just not for me, Oz."

"The thing is, it is – you're perfect for what you do, you could be making so much more."

"But that's not all I'd have to do."

Oscar shook his head. Holmes thought it evident that they had had this conversation many times before. "We'll be on our way, then."

"I'll see you later. Oh, and where did you get those clothes from?"

Molly tapped the side of her nose and winked at Oscar, walking backwards into the alley. "I'll see you later."

Holmes gave him a nod, and then turned, following Hooper down the cobbles. Pigeons that had been stood on the ground, pecking at bits of bread on the floor, flustered at their footsteps and flew off in a haste. But as soon as they had gotten out onto a proper street again, she turned left, and went back on themselves. Walking through the streets, a strange feeling weighed down onto Holmes' chest, seeing how the prostitutes mixed with the homeless on the streets, how children too weak to beg simply lay curled up underneath thin blankets, waiting for the release of death to save them from the agony that they must be in.

"Well, here we are." She stopped suddenly outside the mouth of a cramped, squat alleyway. Molly turned, to see Holmes nowhere in sight. Looking around, she saw him crouching next to a child. She hurried over.

"What are you doing?" She peered over him, to see the kid. He looked barely older than seven, and as thin as a rake, shivering in the London winter. But then, she didn't see the child anymore, for a moment, she saw herself.

"I was just…" Holmes looked around, making sure no-one was watching, and then pressed a pound into his little hand. Molly's eyes widened at how much money he was giving.

"Bless you, Sir." His voice came out as croaky and stretched. "My friends'll be back shortly; we can buy some proper food and a place to sleep for tonight. God bless you." He repeated.

Holmes' expression softened, and something was lost, of what she usually saw of him. Something she hadn't even realised was a façade was nowhere to be seen. His brow pushed together lightly, eyes kind, a soft, sad smile on his lips.

Silently, he stood up, scanned the street, and when he looked back at her, it was gone. Molly almost couldn't believe she was looking at the same man.

His eyes rested on where she had said was the entrance to where they were going. "That's it?" Holmes followed her as they walked over.

"Expecting something grander?" Molly quizzed, as she started down the narrow alleyway. She decided not to bring what he had just done up again, it seemed that he wanted her to act like she hadn't seen anything.

"Oh, you're not going to mug me, are you?" He asked, exasperated, ducking down as he followed her.

She laughed. "If I was going to, it would have been long done by now."

"I'm not sure I'm too happy on how quickly you said that." He muttered.

"Funny. Watch your-" As soon as the words left her mouth, Mr Holmes went flying forward. She put a hand out to steady him. "Step." Molly laughed, but on hearing how high-pitched and girly it sounded, abruptly cut herself off.

He cleared his throat, clearly a little embarrassed, and then straightened himself out. They now found themselves in a claustrophobic courtyard, where moss grey in between the dark cobbles and a sliver of light got in through the gaps in the timeworn buildings, their small glassless windows shuddering in the wind.

"How long is this going to take, Hooper? I'm probably running late – not that I would know, however." He scowled. "I wonder whose fault _THAT_ is."

"Are you always this impatient?" She asked, annoyance lacing her voice, as she kept walking.

He frowned at the back of her head, apprehensive, but followed all the same. His expression of confusion grew as she dug her fingers into the hollows in the wall, and started to climb.

"The second window up." Molly informed him. "Don't just stand there looking pretty, now, come on." She handled her light frame with a certain amount of cat-like grace, that was completely lost on her when her feet were planted on the ground.

Sherlock decided not to go that way. Instead, he opted on climbing from one ground floor window to the second. He pulled himself up – which Molly had to admit looked quite impressive, given his large frame – and waited for her, as she dove inside the already open window. Piano music drifted through, and their attention was drawn to a gramophone, its gold-toned brass speaker blossoming like an etched flower, which although grainy in its feedback, was playing a gentle, melodic piano tune.

"Is that Half-Pint Hooper I see?" A woman's voice from the other side of the room, cockney and mottled, although at the same time, musical. On closer inspection, Holmes discovered that the voice didn't match the person. She cut a somewhat seductive figure (or as sultry as one could be in a corset and dress), her face picture perfect and her ashy blonde hair curled and styled to perfection. "Oh, dear, what happened to that cherub face of yours?"

"You should see the other man, Liza." She replied, as Liza put a hand to her face, her thumb delicately grazing over the cut, face fraught with worry. "How's business?"

"Brilliant, of course." Her feline gaze then rested on Holmes, and she dropped her hand. "That is, unless you've come with Mr Holmes on the intent of putting me away, in which case, I haven't the foggiest as to what you're going on about, but there is a two-for-one offer on the leeks."

Holmes looked around. The room was, at first glance, nothing more than a store room above a grocery shop, the stairs to which were in the left corner. Crates of stock were piled up against the bare walls and cloth lay over particularly big boxes. As he approached the other two, the floorboards creaked beneath him as they took his weight with complaint.

"Actually, he's got a bone to pick with you."

Liza seemed a little caught by this, looking to the detective with an amount of distress in her expression. "I'm not in trouble, I hope?"

"Not yet." He told her. "You have something of mine, I've come to have you return it."

"Oh. Well why didn't you just ask in the first place?" She walks over to a rectangular box, and pulls off the cloth. It revealed a handsome desk, made of dark, polished wood, the middle section of it glass, displaying the shelves of little antiques and knick-knacks, from a stuffed dodo bird to a thimble from Queen Victoria's coronation. "You can have it back. At a price, of course."

His mouth parted. "You have the nerve to make me pay for my own belongings?"

She smiled. "That'll be five pounds and ten shillings, please."

"Five pounds?!" Holmes protested.

"That's more than double what I sold it to you for!" Molly added.

"This isn't a charity, Hooper."

Holmes turned to the outraged thief beside him. "Empty your pockets, please."

"That has to be one of the politest opening lines of a mugging I've ever heard." She smiled, letting him know, without saying it, that she wasn't about to hand over anything to him.

"You're not the one that's about to be robbed for the second time in the space of _seven_ days." He snapped.

Molly looked away from him, addressing Liza now. "Listen, we're looking for the pocket-watch I came in with a few days ago. Put it on my tab, and I'll work it off for you, you got my word."

"You HAVE my word." Holmes muttered. Molly shot him a warning look.

Liza put two long fingers into the neck of her dress, and pulled out a silver chain. On the end of it were a set of keys, all bound by one loop. Taking this off, she used the fourth one – old looking, even primitive – to unlock the cabinet. Slowly, she lifted the wooden segment on her side up, and opened a box. From here, she took out a pocket-watch, and placed it on the glass counter. Molly looked up to Holmes, to see him staring at it emotionlessly, as she locked the cabinet again.

Holmes reached out and picked it up, before tentatively clicking it open. He remained expressionless as he set it back down on the counter, and then, locked gazes with Liza.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked.

"I don't take too kindly to people taking me for a fool, Madam." He never took his eyes off her, and suddenly his face wasn't expressionless, it was dark and foreboding.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"This isn't mine."

"Well, I don't see how it could be anyone else's." She reached out to take it back. "I-"

Holmes snatched Liza's hand, took off her glove, and then turned it palm-up. The music abruptly stopped on the gramophone, now giving back only white noise.

"Mr Holmes!" Molly exclaimed.

"Who did this to you?" He asked Liza, ignoring Hooper.

Moly frowned, and looked over at her hand. Her eyes widened at the sight, bruises running up and down her fragile wrists, as if someone had held her in a vice grip. Holmes pushed back the sleeve of her dress, to reveal that it was a recurring pattern of violet and scarlet.

"Liza…" Her voice trailed off, small and disbelieving. It was hard to believe that a figure as prominent and respected in the tight-knit community of the slum could have been attacked.

"I suspect the same man that broke in here last night, and took my pocket-watch." He announced. "However, you were already here, and you caused him a bit of trouble, didn't you?"

"I don't have a-"

"How on Earth could you know that, Holmes?"

"Didn't you notice?" He looked to Molly. "The hinges on the window. Although they themselves are rusted, the screws look new, and contrast against them. Someone must have tampered with them, and Liza then fixed them again. Then, of course, we have the feature of interest surrounding your key chain. Not only are the rest of the keys all more damaged than the others, indicating that they have all been tried on a lock not meant for them quite vigorously. There are also the fragments of the last, more delicate chain that you had, scattered around the room at our feet. The scratches around the keyhole of your desk indicate someone in a rush, or perhaps in a scrap, whilst trying to open it. On inspecting the shelves of the desk, you can clearly see no break in the layer of dust anywhere apart from here," He points to a circle-shaped dustless zone on the highest glass shelf. "Meaning that nothing else was taken apart from my pocket-watch. This brings me to the conclusion that whoever broke in here was searching exactly for just that, and didn't just come here on a greed-fuelled whim." Holmes took a breath. "Now, are you going to tell me who it was, or will I need to employ more catalytic tactics?"

Liza was defeated. It was apparent in the way her face fell, that once cheerful and playful exterior now dropping, the illusion shattering, to reveal a raw despair that sunk her eyes and upturned her mouth.

"I wanted to keep it a secret." Her musically lilted voice was now playing a whispering, despairing song.

"Well, clearly going to the police wouldn't be the wisest of decisions." Holmes agreed. "However, you now have someone leagues above the likes of the imbecilic Scotland Yard; you have me. Tell me everything you saw." Briefly, Molly wondered if he was always like this.

"Well, I was just cleaning up, closing down the shop. It takes a while to dust, so-"

"Yes, yes, yes, get to the good bit." He pained.

"Holmes, a little sympathy wouldn't hurt." Moly told him.

"Really?" Holmes murmured. "It'd hurt me."

"I heard something scratching at the window. It sounded strange, but at first I thought it was just rats. Then, I heard treading on the floorboards. I crept up the stairs, but when I got up here, there was no-one here, even after I looked around. Figuring that I must have imagined it, I turned to go back downstairs, and that was when he struck. I felt a yank at my necklace, and then it shattered, and my keys fell to the floor. It was dark and there were no candles lit, so I couldn't see his face. I tried to retaliate but it was no use; he was too strong for me. He took me by the arms and pushed me over to the stairs. I fought back as hard as I could, but with one push, I went flying down the stairs. I think he hoped that I would break my neck in the fall, but I woke up several hours later, with no major injuries, thank God. I ran upstairs to see what had been taken, but strangely, there was nothing amiss. Apart from your pocket-watch, everything else lay unmolested. There was a new one, however, sat on the desk. I figured that I could replace it with that, fixed the window, and prayed that he would never return."

"What an ordeal, Liza!" The amount of real concern in her voice almost surprised Holmes. "I'm surprised you're taking something so traumatic in your stride like this, I'd never have guessed."

"Oh, you've grown to be such a lovely young man, Milo." She looked upon him dotingly. "You turned out alright in the end, didn't you?"

"If you two have had quite enough of the _sentiment_ ," He spat the word, as if bestowing a curse. "There's work to be done. Hooper, are you coming?"

"I don't understand, how are we to find who did this?"

"I have my methods. If you'll excuse us, Miss Liza, we'll have to take our leave." By this time, the fight outside had disbanded, and they were able to leave through the front doors.

"Where now, then?" Molly asked, surveying the blood and knocked-out men on the floor, happy to see that Oscar wasn't among their ranks.

"We visit one of my operatives. If they don't know anything, then I'm not sure anyone will." He informed her, as she half-jogged to keep up with him.

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	3. The World On an Absinthe Spoon

**3**

 **A/N:**

 **A quick thank you to everyone that has followed, favourited, and reviewed! It really means a lot, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!  
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Molly tried to ignore the hungry eyes watching them as she walked side-by-side with Holmes. The street was a ghost of the 18th century, remnants of the pre-industrial revolution left rotting, like a disease drawing life from the vibrant pulse of the inner city. The most surreal thing about it was that it was only a half-hour's walk from the cathedral of finance, the Bank of England. She could easily imagine this street once bustling with life, well-to-do families watching the flowers bloom in spring, lazing about in the sun-soaked rectangular gardens in summer, young children playing on the streets, leaves gently falling in the autumn, and having Christmas dinner in the winter.

But destitution had sunk its teeth into this neighbourhood. Now, a drunkard leant against the railings, and a gaggle of prostitutes stood on the far corner. The houses fell to wrack and ruin, ivy reclaiming them the brickwork for Mother Nature, and housed all sorts of the wrong type of crowd. A grey sky lay flat above. It occurred to her that the latter felt homelier than anything the comforts of the first could ever offer her.

The drunkard took one look at them, and started his approach. He wore a crumpled top hat and a suit that looked to have more tears than fabric, all browns and purples and dark greens mismatching.

"Holmes, I think we might have trouble." She informed him, stopping and eyeing up the man.

"With any luck." He murmured back to her, "Let's not get our hopes up too quickly, though."

She frowned at his answer as he closed the distance between himself and the tramp.

"Mr 'olmes, I didn't know you frequented these parts in the daytime." He stated, his words a staccato cockney.

"As it would happen, I-" Holmes began.

But the tramp was already focused on Molly, his eyes wide in equal parts confusion and shock. "Hooper? What're you doing in that get-up? Come to buy the street?"

She allowed a smile. "Funny."

"And why've you copped a mouse?"

She sighed, her fingers now subconsciously drawn to the light purple bruising around her black eye that he was talking about, brushing against the tender skin and causing her to cringe. "It's a long story. Perhaps too tame of one, too." Molly looked to Holmes, who didn't look the least bit taken aback with the revelation that the two were, in fact, already acquainted. "You're not surprised?"

"Oh, no. I just assume all you poor people already know each other; makes things a great deal easier." Holmes stated, totally nonchalant.

"What a pig-headed conception." Molly stated, her nose creased up as if his words had physically revolted her.

"Quite." He paused, and then looked down at her. "Not wrong, though."

She opened her mouth to retort, and then found that the breath caught in her throat. Molly had nothing to say back to him.

"Do not engage in a battle of wits if one is unarmed, Hooper." Holmes advised, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, or at least it seemed like it from looking at his profile, leaving Molly to simply grit her teeth, as he turned back to Wiggins. "Now, what do you have for me?"

"Depends what you're looking for."

"Have you heard anything about the break-in at Liza's shop last night?" He quizzed.

"You gonna solve it for her?"

Holmes gave Wiggins a sour look. "Maybe I would, if I had more _information_."

"Sorry." But he didn't sound sorry; he a little preoccupied. "Listen, I only heard one thing about that."

Holmes leaned in, interest gleaming in his silvery blue eyes. "And that would be?"

"That nothing were taken."

"Ground-breaking!" Holmes cried, obviously more than irritated with his apparently sub-par informant.

Molly suffered trying not to snigger, and failed miserably. "Aren't you a good little whiddler, Wiggins?" Her voice was thick with sarcasm.

He ignored being called a snitch. "How'd you win what you did?" It seemed Wiggins was more interested as to how she stole from Sherlock Holmes. News travelled fast, then.

"He's easier to unthimble than he looks." Molly said, with a smile a little too proud. After all, she was nothing but a dirty thief, at the end of the day. The lowest of the low, as she had to keep reminding herself.

"Oh?" Wiggins wasn't preoccupied anymore. "I always figured he'd be a beefy cove. Where'd you take it?"

"To the stalling-ken and whipt in the glaze, like always."

"I's bina mort, eh?" Wiggins replied, chuckling.

Her smile grew wider. "Yea, uneklin ka bink rolko, ily."

"Lebon fu!" Suddenly Holmes' booming voice snapped the two low-lives out of their conversation. The detective sighed, putting his gloved fingers to his temples in a show of exasperation.

"Voker basifen?" Molly asked, in slight awe that an outsider understood.

"Yes, I can speak Thieve's Cant. What sort of detective would I be if I couldn't?"

"Well, then you'd be one from Scotland Yard." She paused, "But how?"

He smiled."Self-taught."

"Fluent?"

"Of course. Now, Wiggins, is that really all you have to offer?"

"You ain't given me much time to find anything out, 'ave you?"

"Well, get to work. Spread the word. I want _everything_ on that night."

"Yessir." He did a mock salute and then turned, walking away into one of the decrepit houses.

Holmes sighed, and shook his head, as he watched his trudge off.

" _That_ was useful." Molly pointed out, smiling maliciously.

"Do shut up." He replied dismissively, "He's not normally that incompetent."

"Well, we've tried _your_ friends, now let's try mine."

"Oh, wonderful." His baritone was impossibly dry. "What are they? More thieves? Beggars? Prostitutes?"

"Yes, but not in that order. Come on."

Holmes couldn't seem to suppress the smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth, as he started behind her.

Dirty Don's was a smoky pub on the Southbank, and the comforting light chatter inside didn't stop as they entered. It seemed that people were too busy trying to forget the troubles that they had left at home to scorn anyone better off than them. At least, at present.

Holmes surveyed silently behind her as she led him through. At this time of the day the only people at the pub were the people on night shift and alcoholics, or both. She walked past a forty-odd year old sailor with a stereotypical peg leg and beard sat at an upright piano, his short, fat, hairy fingers plodding a cheery tune along the ivories.

She reached the wooden bar, and drummed her fingernails on it.

"Where is this friend of yours, then?" Holmes asked her.

"Who're you?" A woman's voice from behind the bar. It was cockney, and looking over now, Holmes saw a woman with ringlets of tightly wound black hair escaping from an intricate looking up do; her beautiful and eye-catching features twisted into an expression of contempt.

Molly answered for Holmes. "Was wondering if you know some things, Don."

Don looked to Molly, faking a look of confusion and awe. "And who might this pretty young gentleman be?"

She grinned sheepishly. "Thanking you _very_ much. I do look quite cosmopolitan, don't I?"

Don grumbled amusedly, leaning over the counter and hitting the preening Molly lightly over the head.

"This is Sherlock Holmes." Molly continued, not far from grinning now. "Holmes, this is Sally Donovan, the landlady of this here fine establishment."

"Charmed." Holmes sneered, narrowing his eyes.

"I thought I'd already had my fair share of bad luck meeting this cove once, now it's happening again!" Donovan exclaimed, glaring at Holmes. "God must be punishing me."

"You two know each other?" Molly's brow furrowed, confusion set both in her face and her tone.

"Unfortunately, yes." Donovan said, "What're you doing with _this_ priggish toff, Milo?"

"Detective work, it'd appear." She replied.

Donovan gave a forced smile. "Well, you can just go and do it somewhere else."

"Oh, don't be like that, Sal."

"I won't have his type in my Inn, Hooper, absolutely not."

"Oh, yes, because you're used to far more refined sort of clientele, aren't you?" Holmes snapped, folding his arms and leaning back on the bar.

"Brilliant, you've gone and got him grumpy." Molly exclaimed, causing Holmes' nose to twitch in annoyance. "Aren't people behind the bars supposed to be gracious hosts?"

"What is it you're looking into, anyway?" Sally asked, sighing.

Molly leaned in. "You know anything about the commotion round at Liza's last night?"

"Oh, ain't that the topic on everyone's lips at the moment."

"Not the only thing." Holmes mumbled, staring out at the wall, tensing his jaw.

Molly raised a brow, and then looked back at Sally, who was staring daggers into the back of Holmes' head with so much gumption she was half surprised he couldn't feel it. "Well?"

"I've heard a lot of different theories." She looked away briefly, then back to Molly. "I'm having a little trouble… singling them out at the moment. It's all _very_ hazy, you see." She gave her a suggestive look, one to hint at some coin that might loosen her tongue.

"Oh, blackmail." Holmes hissed. "How creative."

"That's it! You're barred, Holmes. No freaks allowed in here, thank you very much. It's bad for business."

"Well then, maybe you should put up a _sign_!" He cried, before storming out of the pub, slamming the door behind him.

"What in God's name are you doing knocking around with a man like that, Milo?!"

"Calm yourself, woman!" Molly counteracted her anger with her own confusion. "I ain't never seen him do nothing wrong."

"Well, you haven't been watching for long enough then, have you?" She paused, looked away, a strange sort of reflection playing in her dark eyes. "Or maybe you read those positively awful stories of him and his dog. Stories, that's what they are. Just fairy tales."

"I believe what I can see, Missus Donovan. Takin' a logical conclusion from only what you can reach out and touch is the best way forward. I ain't talking about no _fairy tales_."

Sally leaned in, suddenly urgent. "Listen, and listen well, young man, cos I ain't 'bout to repeat myself." She hissed, "Sniffing around like this is gonna get you in some monumental type of trouble, y'hear? There's been some unsettling rumours floating 'bout this place that I heard from all types, and the last thing I want is someone like you to get caught up in the whole terrible business. Not for the likes of you, you see?"

Always protected. Molly was always being protected. And she hated it.

"Why does no-one take me seriously round 'ere? I can take care of myself, Sal." Her pleas were hushed, spoken under a dark breath, but at the same time deeply impassioned, a small spark setting her eyes alight.

Donovan stared at her for some solid seconds. She was a very serious woman, worn out by the unescapable prejudice that she faced on a daily basis.

"You remember how we met, Milo?"

"Course, course. How could I forget?" She smiled, nodding lightly. "That were them times of peace. Or, at least, that's what everyone says."

"When you were running between the gin palaces, eh?" Strangely, Donovan appeared as if she recalled the times with a certain fondness. "Simpler, back them. Black and white. You knew what belonged to who, where you weren't supposed to go, where others couldn't. For a while, although violent, it was so much easier." She sighed. "But now? If this _is_ a war, then it's nothing like I've ever seen. Code of honour gone out the window. Now we got those new-age gangsters, looking to make their marks on this here city of ours."

"They want the world on an absinthe spoon. That'd be fine, if there was just enough to go round."

"Exactly. You saw the fight down in Hoxton, didn't you? It's just gonna get worse, I tell you that. Turf wars. Now, we're somewhat exempt here, so we should be okay. But if anything ever happened…"

Molly struggled not to laugh. The pub, a pub for four hundred years, was not just the centre of an entire community of the underworld, but it was also home to an uncountable amount of rum sorts. Sally leased out rooms upstairs, and speaking from experience, Molly knew just how strict she was when it came to her guests. She wouldn't tolerate any rubbish. You couldn't, not around these parts.

"Come on, Sal. Not in a million years would anything happen here. It's-"

"Hooper!" The door was parted open, and an out of breath Holmes stood at it, the light crowning around his large frame.

Molly frowned deeply. "What's the matter?"

He went to walk in.

"One step inside and you're a dead man, Holmes!"

He looked up in incredulity. "I really do believe that you're going to want to let me off on this one, Donovan."

Sally pursed her lips and crossed her arms, staring at him challengingly. "And why would that be?"

"Because, as it happens, I might be the only one that could save your-"

Holmes suddenly side-stepped, and a huge man came hurling inside, stumbling. The detective kicked him forward, and he went flying, face first into a table, knocking him out on impact.

"Quickly now, Hooper. It really is in our best interests that we hurry." Now he was ignoring Donovan's orders, instead electing to pace across the room and over to the two.

"What's going on?" Sally cried, and then looked to the unconscious man on the table. "And who the bloody hell's he?!"

"A friend. Well, I say friend," He took a breath.

"What?" Moly thought was still just as confused as before the answer.

"We'll have time for your thrillingly articulate questions later, Hooper." He was completely caught up in the two, his mind seemed to be racing quicker than he could catch it.

"But, I don't –" That was when she froze, her eyes locked over Holmes' shoulder. His brow creasing, he quickly span round, and then his eyes were widening, as if a current had been sent through him.

The people that had previously been customers were now rising from their seats in a menacing sort of union, producing and brandishing weapons, point them at the three, dark expressions as slowly, together, they closed in.

"In hindsight, I may have missed a _small_ detail." Holmes said, holding his thumb and index finger an inch together, slowly backing away.

"What sort of detective are you, Holmes?" Molly asked, a slight break in her voice. "I'm starting to suspect no sort at all!"

Despite the situation, he snapped to her, outrage dropping his mouth. "Only the best in the world! Donovan, tell him about the cab driver one. Go on!"

"We'll deal with your pride later, Holmes." She replied, "Come on, this way!"

Sally turned and, holding the ruffles of her navy dress, ran into the kitchen behind. As Holmes was the last one in he turned and slammed the door behind them, finding the 'lock' and placing the long plank of wood across the two metal holders on each side of the door.

Molly stopped, large eyes watching him in panic, hearing the clicks as Donovan rushed through and down a set of narrow basement stairs. Lifting the loop of chunky black keys tied to the waist of her dress, she started jamming one into the lock. Her hands were shaking.

"ONE, TWO, -" There was a bulge and a splinter of the plank of wood as one simultaneous surge of the attackers was launched onto the door.

"Bit faster might work, Sal!" She pained.

"Don't rush me!" Donovan squawked back.

"Can't we just leave out the back?" Molly asked.

"Run? In _this_ dress?" Donovan raised her brows, then tutted. "Men."

"Yeah, men." Molly mumbled, dryly. If only they could see the irony.

Another surge from the other side of the door, and the plank was half broken.

"Donovan!" Holmes commanded every decibel of his voice.

"Shout at me once more, I dare you!"

"Oh, or what? What are you going to do, name-call me to death?"

"Shut up!" Molly threw a frying pan at Holmes, who caught it with a snap of honed reflexes. "Get ready for a fight, posh boy."

He half sneered, half laughed at her. "Please, you little guttersnipe. You wouldn't tell a tailor how to sew, would you?"

"No, I'd steal his sewing pins, Sir."

He scoffed. "Oh, aren't you just a-"

The door broke.

Holmes got in an impressive swing on the first one, right into his already flat nose, a direct hit that might have sent a ball a good mile on a windy day.

Molly readied herself, swallowing thickly as she took out her pen-knife, and held it out in front of her, challengingly. They stopped around her momentarily, as Holmes engaged with a man with a certain flair of artistry in the strangely precise, fluid brutality. He looked to be using an unlawful tonic of martial arts and boxing, and from the looks of it, a strong one. The detective smashed his forehead into the shorter man, and Molly winced, looking back to her adversary, who took out his own knife.

They circled each other momentarily, trying to get at each other's weaknesses. Of course, Molly was at a certain disadvantage, given her small stature, frail body, and thin skin. He was a lumbering, but physically fit man, a large, debilitating looking scar – or burn – running from the middle of his bald head to the left side of his face. Then again, she had speed, agility. Brains. That was what mattered, not brute strength. Not that that didn't come in handy at times, of course.

His knife hand lunged for her, the metal glinting, and she quickly dodged to the side, electing to roughly grab his wrist and twist with all that she had. The sudden shock of pain seemed to ripple through him, for a moment rendering him useless. Quick to use this to her advantage, she landed a heavy-booted foot into his lower stomach, and he crumpled in two like a playing card. Using the butt of her knife, black and heavy, she slammed it into his left temple.

The man seemed to jerk at the collision, and then, fell to the ground.

As if on cue, Sally called out to them; "Done!"

Molly made a run for it, turning on her heel, almost falling down the stone steps as she flew down them. Holmes threw an elbow into someone's jaw, and then, taking one step back, turned himself, and followed suit.

They just made it. Holmes and Molly had to push back against the door against their pursuers force from the other side, as Sally fumbled to lock it. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped away.

"They won't get past that. That door's got to be tough as old boots – one of those Tudor ones. Don't make them like that anymore."

"Wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't riddled with termites." Holmes observed.

"A bit less of the bickering and a bit more of the getting the bloody hell out of here would be nice." Molly mused, directing it at Holmes.

He held her gaze defiantly for a moment, before sighing, and looking to Sally. "I fathom you haven't just trapped us in your basement, Donovan."

"This connects directly to them old Roman sewers. We should be able to get out that way."

"Haven't some toffs started to… link their latrines into that?"

"Rich people really are mental; I'll give them that. What about the poor toshers that have to work down there?"

Holmes rolled his eyes.

The three made their way down a narrow, dewy descent, the steps half crumbing. Eventually, they hit the underground, ancient sewers. They were wide and surprisingly accommodating, only a small stream of water ambling down the middle of the hollow of the large tube. There were raised platforms on each side, almost like pavements, which the three made glad use of.

"Where to now?" Molly asked.

Holmes stepped forward, looked around, seemed to gather his bearings, and then, turned to the right, pointing off diagonally.

"Baker Street is that way. We can be on the street in ten minutes."

"Baker Street?"

"My rooms. It's closer than the Watson household, and I'm assuming that you want that wound to be seen to."

"Wound?" She repeated.

He cocked his head, and then looked down at her right arm. "You failed to notice?"

Blinking, she followed his gaze to it, a pang hitting her as she saw it. It seemed that she had not dodged the knife as well as she had thought.

"Well, it'd be preferable to get above ground before any microbes infest themselves into it and cause you to fall ill."

"Microbes? What, like them little floating invisible things? In the air?" Molly pressed her lips together in an attempt not to laugh, looking away from him with an expression of badly hidden glee.

"Have you heard of a man named Louis Pasteur, Hooper? I have some dissertations on the subject proving its existence sitting around collecting dust in my rooms, if you'd care to read them."

Her face went blank, and then filled with a mild annoyance, irritated that he had brought up something that she had revealed to him in confidence.

"Which way are you going, Donovan?"

"I'll go left. To Liza's. Both of our establishments attacked, in one form or another, in the space of twenty-four hours? No, something's going on here."

"And trust that I shall get to the bottom of it, Donovan." He gave her a condescending grin; the type he knew could get to her.

Sally hissed in a breath, gave him a dirty look, and then turned, making sure to keep her skirts at least three inches from the ground. Molly watched her leave with a sort of worried apprehension pushing into her expression, before chancing a glance up at Holmes. She hadn't really noticed it before, perhaps she had been too preoccupied with what he had been saying or doing, rather than how he looked, but he possessed a sort of regal profile, like the white statues of Greek gods that stood proudly about the capital.

"Sir, do you come from royalty?" She asked, as they turned, and started back to Baker Street.

He chuckled. "What makes you say that?"

"Your nose, mostly."

He blinked, looking up. His hand went up, almost to cover it, before remembering himself, and straightening out his hat. Clearing his throat, he said; "Well, you're not _wrong_. My grandfather was George the Second's cousin."

Her mouth parted, before she stopped walking. "Your highness." She put a fist over her heart, and bowed so deeply it was clear that she was taking the mick.

Holmes' shoulders shuddered in a hearty laugh. "You really are an insufferable little swine, Hooper."

"Or so I've been told, my Liege."

"You best not tell Watson. I'll never hear the end of it."

"Wouldn't dream of it." She grinned at him, and he returned it, before blinking and looking away, and forward.

"Oh, Mr Holmes! You're back!" An old woman stood at the open door, as if she had known that he was close to home. She wore a dress, and had surprisingly short hair.

"Mrs Hudson," He greeted her affectionately.

"And who's this young man you have with you?" She asked, looking down at Molly with a smile.

"This," He almost grimaced. "Is my nephew. Milo Holmes. He's been taking lodge with the Watsons."

Mrs Hudson seemed taken aback at this prospect for a second, before gathering herself, and outstretching a hand to Molly.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Hudson." Molly put on a posh accent, knowing that it wouldn't raise as many eyebrows as what her natural idiolect might.

"Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air!" She giggled. "The delight's all mine, Mr Holmes. Oh, wait, that's going to get confusing. Might I call you Holmes one and Holmes two?"

"Please, call me Milo, if it might make it easier for you."

Mrs Hudson looked at Holmes. "You could learn a thing or two from your nephew, you know."

"Yes, quite." He replied, strained. Molly could almost see the veins in his forehead, knowing that he was just bursting to tell Mrs Hudson the truth, just for a little satisfaction. She struggled not to laugh at the expression.

"Anyways, do come in. I've just started up your fires, so it should be nice and warm."

He smiled, and walked past her. Molly followed him up the stairs.

Bright light knifed into the living room through a crack in the long curtains, illuminating the room and highlighting the dust that floated aimlessly in the air. The almost stuffily warm air was a comfort, compared to the biting cold of the outside. On right, there was a beautiful iridescent wallpaper, purple and patterned with flowers, different colours with the light. A long sofa sat in the hollow of it, and on the side table was a record player. There was a table in the middle of the two large windows, books piled on top, along with a decanter. A stag's head was placed on the wall above it. To the left was the fire, already in a mess of flames, between two bookcases, the shelves bending with the heavy volumes they held. Two chairs, one buttoned leather and the other a comfy looking armchair, sat opposite each other on either sides of the fire. The floor – dark floorboards – was redeemed only by a red, patterned rug, underneath the chairs.

Holmes strode over and into the next room, disappearing for a moment, leaving her alone in the living room. A wrench in her gut held tightly, wondering if he had deliberately done it. If she hadn't ever have known him, she would have stripped the place bare in ten minutes, perhaps less. All of this stuff had to be worth hundreds, surely.

Tentatively walking over to the table, her gaze rested on a pair of heavy, gold coloured binoculars. She had heard of these, new-fangled thing, could make things appear closer than they were if the user was just to look down the lenses. Like a pair of glasses, but better. Her mouth dry with a familiar, greedy sort of desire, her fingertips grazed over the cool metal. Christ, it had to be worth more than what she made in a month. Imagine how many people she could pay off with that!

Curiousity sparked, and, looking to where Holmes had gone off to, hearing distant footsteps, she slowly raised them to her eyes, and walked over to the window. Pulling back the curtains, she looked out onto the street, and to her surprise, found that the people's faces were as if she was only a few footsteps away from them.

"Brilliant!" She exclaimed under her breath, smiling now.

"It's not a toy, Hooper."

Mouth parting, she whizzed round to the noise, still looking down the binoculars, to find a close up of Holmes' disapproving expression. Scrambling to carefully set them down, she smiled sheepishly at him.

"S-sorry. They just looked… sorry. I shouldn't have touched it without permission."

But he wasn't looking or listening to her. Holmes was looking around at his belongings, raising an eyebrow, and then, meeting her eyes with a small smile. Now, he was wearing a royal blue dressing gown over his suit.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions, if that's acceptable. Sit in the chair to the left. Mrs Hudson!"

She gave him a slightly confused look at the sudden shouting, but went to follow his directions, sinking into the armchair. Molly heard footsteps up the stairs, and then, the door opened.

"Yes, dear?"

"My nephew hasn't eaten since this morning. Make him something."

Molly's face fell, and she snapped to look at him. " _Mr Holmes!_ " All of a sudden she was angry, and stood up.

He frowned, looking down at her. "What?"

"Have you no respect for women? Mrs Hudson, please accept my apology on behalf of my extremely rude uncle."

Mrs Hudson seemed just as confused as Holmes. "Oh, he's always like that."

"It's part of my charm." He added.

"I couldn't give a rat's arse if it's part of your charm!" She cried.

Mrs Hudson gasped, hand flying to her mouth in scandal.

"For – forgive my impertinence, Mrs Hudson, but my temper will not allow for a man to be so very disrespectful to a woman twice his age in my presence. Now," Molly looked back at Holmes. "Apologise to her."

He looked as if he was going to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. "What?"

"I said, apologise to her. For a man of such impeccable breeding, Mr Holmes, it would seem that you have forgotten yourself."

" _I_ have forgotten myself?" He stepped forward, expression dark. "I suggest you hold your tongue, young man, before you regret what you say."

"I'd never regret standing up for what I believe in, Sir. Just because I am little, and uneducated, you think me to be stupid? Why, the day I take orders from you is the day I lose what I stand for, and that is that women are equal to men in every category, Sir!"

He laughed, fully amused. "Surely you cannot be serious! For a man to think that a woman could ever be capable of doing anything half as well as them is not only a fool, but a crude one at that."

Molly's mouth dropped open in disgust. "And you really believe that? Fully? In your heart?"

"With all my heart, young man."

Her face crumpled up into one of soured disgust, as if she had eaten something that had gone off months ago. "Then I want nothing to do with you. Let this be our last goodbye, Mr Holmes, as I refuse to associate myself with such devils." She turned and stormed off, stopping in the doorway and looking back at him. "Good day to you, Sir!" And with that, slammed the door behind her.

"Mr Hooper, where on Earth have you been? I've been worried sick!" Mrs Watson stood in the hallway, a face of thunder.

"I'm sorry, Mary." Molly's voice was strangely choked, a storm of emotions so large they couldn't escape her throat. "Truly, I am. But, it is time that I leave."

She blinked at this, as if she hadn't heard her properly. "I'm sorry?"

"I did all that I could for your friend, Mr Holmes. I fulfilled my end of the deal, and so did you. And as gracious a host you have been, if I lay eyes on that man once more I fear I might drop dead from frustration alone." Molly started up the stairs.

Mary rushed behind her. "What happened, Milo? Please,"

"It's that detective. He's insufferable. He may masquerade as a gentleman, but he is in fact arrogant, rude – so far up his own arse I'm surprised his voice isn't muffled from his intestines!"

"Oh, what's he done now?" John muttered, walking out of his study and watching Molly as she stormed into her room, Mary following.

"And that poor landlady! Why, you might think she was a dog! Disgusting!"

"Well… yes, he _can_ be like that's just him. He has a heart of gold, really."

"I don't care if his heart's made of the melted down Holy Grail! If he's so nice inside, would it really trouble him so to respect other people? If he's that smart, would it cost him so much energy to be pleasant?!"

"He does make us angry, but you just have to accept-"

"I'll be damned if I accept a man who still holds such beliefs to this day, Mary! He really does believe that women are subhuman, don't you know? And he – he said it as if it was common knowledge, as if I was a fool for believing differently!"

"I didn't know you advocated for women's rights so strongly, Mr Hooper." John said, leaning on the doorframe behind his wife.

"Well – well, I do! I support the suffrage a hundred and ten percent, Sir! I'm a man of the new age, I'll have you know."

"Oh, you're a _liberal_." He replied.

Mary turned back to her husband, walking over to him, giving him a death glare. "What might be wrong with the woman's rights movement, John?"

He twitched at a frown. "W-well, I-"

"I just don't understand." Molly shook her head. "I can't fathom an explanation!"

Then, they heard the front door open.

"Hooper!" Holmes' voice boomed through the house.

Watson judged their expressions. "I'll deal with him."

"I want to hit him, Watson." Molly strode closer to him. "Please, just once."

"Mr Hooper, do contain yourself!"

And then, Holmes was there, in the hallway outside the room, behind the couple. Without breaking her expressionless stare, she closed the door on everyone. She stood with her back against the door, listening to the muffled bickering on the other side. Then, there was the sound of two footfalls, going down the stairs. For some reason, her eyes were stinging with tears of pure anger, irritated to a point she didn't think she could be.

"Mr Hooper…" She heard his voice from behind the door, and realised that the toes of his shoes must be pressing against the door. Molly didn't respond. "I – I didn't realise that you were such a strong believer in the equality of the sexes."

"I didn't realise you were so strongly against it."

He sighed, and there was a long pause. "I realise that it is not an excuse, but to be completely truthful, I have… never been very close to a woman. Even my mother, you see, that's just how it is, how people like me are brought up."

"Why are you doing this, Holmes? I don't take you to be a man that makes apologising a habit."

He laughed softly. "No, and you would not be mistaken in thinking so. The truth is, I need you, if I am going to continue the investigation."

She swallowed thickly, her face flushed. "Well, apologise, then."

"Um, I," He cleared his throat. "Milo Hooper, I am truly sorry for any disrespect that I may have held towards any woman."

"And?"

A deep sigh. "And, I will attempt to better my attitude."

"No." She folded her arms.

She pictured him frowning, refined features crumpling in confusion. "I will not only attempt, I will." A long pause. "I promise." The words seemed to come out under his breath, and for a moment, Molly wondered if she had just imagined them.

With a certain amount of apprehension, she stepped away from the door, turned and opened it, staring up guardedly at Mr Holmes. His Adam's apple bobbed in a swallow, their gazes locked somewhat heavily. What was it about this man that made her feel so strange? She knew that she should still be angry, fuming, in fact, but she could not bring herself to truly hate him.

"I thought you might be more of a forward-thinking man, Holmes." She said, her voice quieter than usual.

"I did, too. It seems that you have shown me up in that respect, Hooper." He outstretched his hand towards her. "You're a man ahead of your time."

Staring down at it, she took his hand, encasing hers immediately. Molly saw the small, familiar frown, as he felt her hands, how small, soft and fragile they were, no manly hair on her knuckles or anything of the sort.

"It seems we might have quite a bit to learn from each other. Even if you are just apologising for my help, it's a start."

He was still lightly shaking her hand, as if a subconscious reaction.

"Yes," Holmes replied. "Quite."

* * *

 **What did you think? Too soppy? Thanks so much for reading, and if you have the time, please do help a girl out and leave a review if you can!**


	4. Belated, Balaclava'ed, and Butting Heads

**A/N:**

 **So, so sorry for the huge wait! I don't have enough words to say how sorry I am, it really has been too long since I updated. Thanks so much for sticking with me 3**

* * *

"We'll start with the obvious." Holmes leaned forward over the table, closer to Molly. The Watson's watched, sat side-by-side on the couch, attempting to keep themselves composed faced with the curiousity that they were being dealt. "Do you think these incidents could be linked in any way?"

"I don't understand why you're asking me." She replied.

"I'm in need of a level of somewhat expertise of the more sinister goings-on in Darker London. I deduce that you are in the loop, so to speak, drawing from your profession, background, and the people you surround yourself with."

" _You_ , in need of help?" Watson shook his head disbelievingly, shifting his gaze to Mary. "Well, I reckon I've just about seen everything now."

"Ignore him. He feels the need to make up for his own frankly subpar wit by making light of my own."

Molly couldn't help but smile. "It takes a certain kind of man to insult a person in his own home, Mr Holmes."

"I sincerely doubt that you have _ever_ met a man like me before, Hooper." His eyes sparked something in her stomach, causing her to quickly look away.

"Look, all I know is that this ain't no grand mystery. Nothing so glamourous, I'm afraid. It's a turf war."

"A turf war that included swapping out my pocket-watch for one completely identical? I doubt it would run quite that deep."

"If it was completely identical, why would they bother? What was so special about that ticker?"

"It was mine. Isn't that special enough?"

" _Special's_ a word for it, Sir." She muttered, leaning back in her chair.

"And what might that mean?"

She ignored the question. "I wonder why you're coming about so obsessed with this thing?" Frowning, and then she laughed. "If you were anyone but yourself, I might'a believed that a lady-friend gifted it to you."

Another laugh. Holmes' face went blank, eyes dropping to the side. Watson looked from Holmes, then to Molly, then Mary, giving his wife a baffled look.

"A lady, yes. But, a friend?"

Her mouth parted. "I'm sorry, I didn't think that you were…" Silence. Molly could taste embarrassment and regret in her mouth. "I didn't mean to offend."

"I know, I know." Then his usual expression was back up, but this time she recognised it as a mask of disaffected neutrality, one that must have taken so many hours of practice to perfect. "Who do you think might have been behind these attacks, Hooper?"

She thought about it, wanting to properly help. "Only cove I can think of is Roy, Sir."

"Roy?" Holmes leaned forward.

"He, er," Her heart started off, faster. They'd kill her, if they knew she'd talked. "He's taken charge of the Cornermen."

"The Cornermen?"

"They stand at the corners of the streets waiting for people to rob, Sir. Bug hunting, that sort a' thing – traditionally speaking, anyways. But Roy, he's wanting to branch out."

"How do you know this?"

"I hear a lot of things. Things I'm not supposed to. Things that can be dangerous for someone to hear."

"I see." He shifted in his seat. "And your friend, Oscar, might he know anything?"

Her eyes widened, shot up at Holmes. "What? No! No. I've known him since I can remember, Sir. And I know he'd never get involved in anything this dodgy." She tried to read his blank expression. "I can vouch for him. I give you my word."

"Pardon my discourtesy, but does the word of a thief tend to have much gravitas these days?" He insulted her casually, his eyes boring into hers.

"You're trying to rile me. I know your game." She played with the seams of her clothes. "It'll get you nowhere fast. If there's one thing I know in this world, it's that Oscar can't tell a lie to save his life." Holmes was silent. He watched her like he was expecting her to say more. She realised now that this was a trick to glean more information from people. "Sir, I don't reckon what happened at Don's today is at all related to your ticker."

"Why?"

"It's gotta be a coincidence. One seems to a' targeted you, true, but the Flashhouse? That's a whole 'nother beast."

Holmes wasn't buying it. "Two well-known, highly respected establishments in the same slum are attacked in the space of twenty-four hours, and you mean to tell me there is no link, no matter how tenuous?"

She shrugged. "Just my humble opinion, anyway."

"It's not your opinion I'm after." He stood up, facing the Watsons. "I shan't keep you any longer. I expect you have things to attend to."

"Nonsense, Holmes." John said, standing up himself. "Stay a little longer."

"I have things that require my attention."

"When are we going to see you next, then?" Mary asked, looping her arm into her husband's.

"When it is time, Mrs Watson." He turned to Molly, and passed her a folded sheet paper. "Look over this." And with that, he left.

Molly stared after him, as he walked out of the living room. She turned to Mary, eyes filling with intensity. "I need to go visit my friend."

"I'm sorry?"

"Now. I need to go."

"Oh, I knew it! He's – you're trying to pull the wool over our eyes, aren't you? Do you think us stupid enough to let you run away, with our food in your stomach, and our clothes on your back?"

"John, please. Who is it you need to see, my dear?"

"Oscar. Please, I need to make sure he's okay."

"It'll be dark soon." John remarked, giving Molly a look of unadulterated disdain. "Why might this urgency come over you so soon and without warning, Mr Hooper?"

She sighed. Reaching up, she felt the skin of her own hands brushing under her collar, and working a clasp at the back. Molly brought her hands forward, and inside was a silver locket, dangling on a delicate chain.

"What's this?" Mary asked, taking it from her.

"Insurance, Ma'am." Mary clicked it open. "Dear old mum."

"Oh, is she…?"

"She died in the cholera outbreak when I was just a little'un. Don't remember her. It's the only picture I got of her."

"I'm so sorry, Hooper." Mary said, genuine upset shining through her eyes. John cleared his throat behind her, as in in agreement, shifting his gaze away.

"I'd never be without it. Meaning I shall have no option but to come back after I've seen that all's well with Oscar."

The Watsons shared an apprehensive look. "Go on, then." John gestured to the door, and then looked at Mary. "But on your head be it."

A talent for lying was a by-product of her upbringing, she knew that much. Molly might have felt a shade guiltier, if she wasn't quite so shameless. But this talent wasn't just a one-way street. She could also see right through liars. And Holmes had practically been glass that evening.

Finding the cab had been easy. At this time at night, and in such an uneventful suburb, it was one of the only sources of noise, the clopping of hooves echoing on the new asphalt. Tailing it proved harder than it would normally have been, as there was no crowd to blend into, no rising chatter to camouflage her steps, and if Holmes so much as glanced in her direction, he would recognise her instantly.

The taxi carriage promptly stopped outside 221B, and Molly sunk into the shadows of a doorway to conceal herself. He got out and looked around, before going into the building. She felt a little stupid for following him now, but persevered nonetheless. The fog was starting to settle on the rooves, as she made her way to the alley that snaked behind the row of posh houses.

They all seemed to be built in a mismatch, not at all displaying the neat unity of the front. It was almost too easy to use the workman's ladder leaning on the building opposite, and lean it onto the side of a brick shed. She looked around, and located the windows to 221B, the flickering glow of the lamps only just starting to cross against the panes of glass. Scanning the brickwork below, she found a drainpipe that snaked all the way past it, to the roof – passing an open window on the top floor.

She took off her hat, and clamped onto it in between her front teeth. Clambering up the drainpipe, she passed the window lit up window with no regard, going straight up to the open one. Swinging herself in, she landed light on her feet, taking a moment to assess her surroundings. The top floor was nothing but a cramped space, with a small square door leading to a storage room, and the stairs going down the building.

In one swift move she dropped to the floor, her body stretched out flat, holding herself up on her toes and fingers, and lowered one ear to the floor. Molly heard his footsteps resonating through the infrastructure of the building.

Now came the waiting game. Patience was key in this line of work, and she had it in heaps. She waited for hours in the attic, having to stay perfectly still until the footsteps subsided. And eventually, they did.

She made her way down the stairs, taking one step every thirty seconds, and using the sides as to not make them creak. In a way, never having enough food was a blessing as much as it was a curse, as it meant that she never had the weight that it took to create heavy footfalls.

The fire was dying down in the living room – she saw the shadows from under the door. Pressing her ear to the wood, she pulled out a small fragment of smashed mirror, that was always on her person. Opening the door, only a fraction, she gritted her teeth as it groaned. Light sliced across the carpet in the hallway, and she cast a thin shadow in it as she held out the mirror, looking into the reflection of the room. She assessed the situation.

Factors for: Holmes was asleep, she was quiet. If not now, then when? Curiousity – overwhelming curiousity. She was being lied to. She needed to know more, not just about the case, but about him. He was fascinating, a storm trapped within a man.

Factors against: Holmes was asleep, and she could be loud. He might be a light sleeper. This was morally wrong – since when had she had morals? It was a breach of trust. She was double-crossing him. The man that wanted to teach her how to read, and how to tie a tie. If the Watsons found out, she'd be back on the street, where she belonged. The look on Mary's face. If Holmes caught her in the act. Mrs Hudson downstairs could be a problem.

Then, she spotted the syringe and needle on the small table next to the armchair. Her mind was made up for her; Holmes wasn't about to wake up anytime soon.

Opening the door wider now, she slipped inside. Molly knew exactly what she was looking for, she always did. It was never messy, never a half-hearted preparation. She always had a plan of action, and then another, in case the first one turned out to be wrong. In her more arrogant moments, Molly liked to think that she combined science and art into the act.

Looking around the room, she could only liken it to how she imagined the inner-workings of his mind to look like. As if someone had transported her inside his head. Books arranged in a neat chaos, and dust telling a tale of what was actually used inside. The fire had been too generously supplied, and beads of sweat started to prick at the skin of her hairline.

Using her hat to fan herself, she crossed the room over to the unconscious Holmes slumped in his chair. He wore the same silk dressing gown over just his slackened shirt and trousers, his bare feet spread out on the rug beneath. Stray tobacco scattered around the small table next to the armchair, his clay pipe resting on its side.

Looking over his unknowing face as he dragged in a breath, she found that he looked so much more gentle than he could ever let on. His sharp features softened ever so slightly by sleep, his palms up and open on the arms of the chair, and his hair – it was unlike how she had ever seen it before. This time it wasn't neatly slicked, aerodynamic and no-nonsense. It came down in black curls, framing his face in an almost angelic fashion. Molly decided that he was a great deal more handsome than he let people know.

She needed to know more. Needed to see more. This wouldn't be the first time this had happened, of course. Molly couldn't count how many times she had broken into people's houses, just to rummage through their life. It was thrilling to look through people's little secrets, pictures of their secret lovers that they thought were safe from prying eyes tucked underneath their mattresses. On one hand, she loved people. Loved their little quirks that she found without their knowledge, their complicated feelings that they thought no-one else could ever understand. At the same time, she knew what people could be like, when pushed to the edge, and she had learnt that there was no line they wouldn't cross in order to get what they wanted.

Gently moving across the room, she went through the study area (there was obviously no need for a kitchen, as Mrs Hudson must have done all the cooking) and into the hallway. Choosing the furthermost door, she found herself exactly where she wanted to be. His bedroom was simple, but decorated with rarities so weird and out-of-place that he could easily turn it into an oddities museum.

There was a strange sort of framed writing above the bed, she recognized that it obviously wasn't English, but apart from that, she was stumped. The wallpaper was a strange sort of pale green, and next to the wardrobe hung another odd-framed-thing, it looked to be printed, and was a rectangle composed of smaller squares, with two letters in each square. He really _was_ a weird man.

That was when she heard it. Something rustling from the living room. Eyes going wide, she looked to the window, and realised that it must lead to the back of the building. She hadn't found out anything, but it was better than getting caught snooping in his bedroom. Swallowing, she waited until the noise picked up, and then went across to the window. Molly tried the window, and heard it creak as it strained. Wincing, she looked back into the living room – and saw a reflection of someone that definitely _wasn't_ Sherlock Holmes.

Another intruder? They were wearing a balaclava, and leaning in to look at Holmes. They didn't look entirely as admiring as she had been. For a moment, she thought about leaving. Saving her own skin and leaving Holmes by himself.

Then she came to reality. There was no way she could do that, not in a million years. Heart thudding in her chest, she forced herself closer to the door. Maybe them just knowing that they had been seen was enough to make them leave, hell, it was always enough for the garden variety burglar.

No, she wasn't going to be happy about just scaring them off. They might come back again. Creeping down the hallway, pressing herself into the dark of the pooling shadows, she positioned herself against the doors.

That was when she saw the intruder reach into Holmes' dressing gown, and pull out a rectangular leather notebook. Peeling it open, they went through it, obviously looking for something in particular. But what?

They must have felt her eyes on them. Because at this moment, they turned, and looked straight to her. As if they had known all along. Their eyes glinted in the dim light of the fire. She straightened up under their gaze, setting her eyes hard.

"Put that down." Molly hoped that her voice sounded strong, threatening.

She watched as they slid the notebook into their pocket. Their eyes glanced sideways at the bedroom, at the window that they could escape out of. So did Molly. Then back at each other. It was like a chord being pulled taut.

 _Three, two,_

The intruder set off to the bedroom, through the kitchen. Swearing under her breath, she jolted after him, catching him in the hallway. Molly caught his arm on the back-swing, and used his own momentum to throw him into the wall. He went down like a felled tree. She wasted no time in throwing herself down after him, laying in a punch to the face, then another, then her hand at his throat.

He kicked at her stomach as her hand went to his pocket, throwing her up and to the side, hitting the wall with her spine and a rush of air leaving from her lungs. The intruder got up quickly, and looked down at her. Playing weak for a moment, and then – a bucking kick to his knee. She heard the joint crunch under her boot, and he let out a cry of pain, the leg instantly going out from underneath him.

She shot up and put her fists up. Eyes on fire, ready for a fight. He did the same, throwing a heavy slugger towards her face. His fist connected with her nose, and she felt the hollow pain instantaneously. Molly reeled back, eyes watering with the pain. He seemed to falter as she gathered all the strength that she had, and punched him straight in the heart. That was the way to pain. She had felt it before; crushing and shattering and no air, reverberating around the rest of your body.

He threw another punch and she leaned her whole body back with it, as if doing the limbo. When she came back up, it was her right leg that went around and straight into the side of his torso. Molly barely registered the hot blood pouring from her nose as she went in for the finishing hit. But she miscalculated. He grabbed hold of her wrist and wrenched her forwards, towards him, raising his other arm. His sharp elbow got thrown into her face. There was that familiarly intense pain, shocking through her head and to the back of her brain. Stepping back, she slumped against the wall, watching with blurred vision as he limped off, through the bedroom window.

Molly could have passed out there and then. She cupped a hand underneath her chin, careful not to get any blood on the floor. Looking over to Holmes, she almost wanted to laugh, as she saw that he had not moved once. It was the morphine, she supposed.

Then, she did laugh. Slipping out the pocketbook from the waist of her trouser, underneath her jacket, she flipped through it. What had the intruder wanted with this? Obviously, though, it was important to someone. Important enough that they felt the need to go to such lengths to acquire it. She had, of course, nipped it from his pocket at a vital moment in the scuffle. As he had gone down against the wall at the start, he had fallen so quickly, his eyes shut in pain, that the book had lifted and glimpsed out of his pocket with the gravity force of the fall. It had almost been too easy to pinch it out, and hide it away before he regained his senses.

But he was going to realise any moment that he was without it. So, tucking the book back into the inside pocket of her jacket, she stood up, and checked for any signs of the struggle that had taken place. Satisfied that even Sherlock Holmes himself would be blissfully ignorant of the goings-on, she went to leave.

There was only one person she could trust to help her with this. And that was Oscar. Besides, who else did she have to turn to? The Watsons? 'Oh, yes, I _did_ steal this from your best friend, but trust me, it's for a good reason'. They'd kick her out before you could say 'stereotypical thief'.

She had made her way through the night city, across the river and to the south, back to where she belonged. The bars and pubs were alive at this time of night, windows lit up like squares of warmth, the jolly noises leaking out onto the cobbled street. At this time, there was only one place that Oscar would be. And that was at home, fast asleep. He did have a penchant for the girls, but recently it had seemed waning, as if he was finally starting to mature on that side of things.

Molly let herself into the dirty building, the hallway full with dust and dirt, the floorboards worn out with footsteps, turned grey with both strain and time. Worlds away from Sherlock Holmes' warm little bubble of Baker Street, it was chillingly cold, and she brought her jacket closer to her body, hugging it to herself.

Oscar was as predictable as always. He was curled up in bed in the corner, his breathing loud and heaving, as the people on the other sides of the room did other things by candlelight, playing cards and drinking straight gin.

"Milo!" There were choruses of her 'name' in cheerful greeting, and she simply nodded to them, raising a hand back. This evidently woke Oscar, as he blinked groggily, rubbing his bruised face and cringing with the reminder of pain.

"Milo?"

"Y'alright?"

"Sore. But, about as good as I can be, considering." He sat up in bed, staring at her. "What is it?"

"I…" She reached into her inside pocket. "I need you to read something for me."

He hesitated, watching as she produced the notebook. "What's that, Milo? Fuck, you haven't brought anything stolen to me, have you?"

Molly shot him a look. "You really think that low of me?"

"Well, I," He backtracked.

"I wouldn't expect anything less." She grinned. "Obviously it's stolen, Oscar."

He sighed, his head falling back. "For God's sake."

"Don't worry. It's just this small thing I need you to read." She passed him the notebook, open on the latest used page, tapping at a long stream of characters scrawled in black ink on the page. Besides it, was a sketch of a beautiful woman. "'Cos, to me, it don't look like anything but random letters and numbers."

His frown deepened. "You're right. It's bloody gibberish."

She mirrored his expression, surprised. "What?"

"It's complete nonsense. D-22, C-11, B-5, B-6, I-2, D-21, P-15, O-17, V-7, J-18, A-14, D-10, Y-13, W-23, U-26, W-4, X-24, and then an exclamation mark." He looked up at her. "Unless that means anything to you, o' course."

"N-no, it doesn't. It sounds like a code, though, maybe?"

"How should I know?" He sighed, settling back down onto his thin mattress. "I've got work in a few hours, Milo. I really would like to get some shut-eye."

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I'll see you later, then."

He didn't respond. She left, clutching the pocketbook, suddenly a lot less confident as she had been before she had entered.

Molly had returned the pocketbook before she had gone back to the Watson's household. She arrived back at the break of dawn, without a wink of sleep. Not even Anabelle was awake yet, it seemed, as the smell of food wasn't drifting up from the servant's quarters.

Her aching body collapsed on the couch. She had had the full intention of dragging herself up to her bedroom, but it all seemed a little bit too much. Her eyes starting to slide closed, she opened the folded piece of paper that Holmes had given her, taking it in through blurry vision. The letters were all in bold, and it was obvious that it was a page of a book that he had ripped out. Frowning, Molly realised that it must be the alphabet.

She fell asleep a while later, taking in the letters again and again, wondering whether Holmes was a good man, and whether or not he had to fight to not fully succumb to his demons.

An untellable amount of time later, Molly awoke to the sound of voices and harsh and hot sunlight on her face.

"-That we ought to do something, really." Mary's muffled tones from the dining room.

She felt damp and groggy, her face hot from the rare sun, but her toes and fingertips cold in the shade.

"Oh, I think he'd love it. Properly introduced to society, and all that malarkey. Get him properly afternoonified!" That was a voice she'd never heard before. Elegant and bird-like, complementing the clinking of what sounded like fine china.

"Really, he's not that sociable of a man. He _is_ a Holmes, after all."

"Maybe so. But, he must take a wife soon, don't you think? For him to get any older within the confines of bachelorhood would only be a cause of later regret, no?"

"I think he's quite happy how he is, actually."

"Oh, come now! Sleeping on the couch of a family friend?"

"He _has_ taken the spare room, but he seemed to have been too tired last night to make the journey upstairs."

"Exactly! Is that not a perfect example of why he needs a wife, and soon?"

Oh, Jesus, they were talking about her.

"I'll ask him later, then."

"Brilliant! Oh, where did you say he had got his education?"

"Le Rosey, in Switzerland. Mycroft wanted nothing but the best for him."

"Even though he was a bastard? I suppose the supposed man of stone _does_ have a heart of gold, then."

"Well, he's been legitimized, so there's really no fuss in that."

"And his mother?"

A long pause. "I'm not all that familiar with the ins and outs of it." Mary cleared her throat. "Is this antique?"

"Oh, I was wondering when you were going to ask!" A cheerful laugh. "Yes, it's Japanese; Edo Period. So exotic, aren't they just! Matthew bought me them for my birthday. He knows how I adore anything from anywhere else!"

"Lovely."

Molly felt physically ill. How was it that women could subject themselves to such idle chatter? God, it was boring. At least having to dress up as a man had that advantage – men could talk about real things. Politics, violence, money, things that mattered. Not teacups, for crying out loud.

She really didn't feel like facing the mystery woman in the dining room. She'd size her up, and they'd have to make meaningless small talk. Plus, she'd be forced to put on her posh voice. That was something else that she wasn't in the mood for.

She slowly swayed to her feet, feeling the soles of her shoes rubbing her feet through thin socks. Looking to the face of the Grandfather clock tucked in the corner, she saw the time – two pm! Embarrassment washed over her, and she briefly wondered why no one had bothered to wake her.

Where had they put her necklace? Somewhere safe, she hoped. Because right now, she was going to go for a walk. Rolling her neck on her shoulders, she walked softly over to the hallway, and then to the door. Opening it, she saw a small, scruffy boy, coming up the tiled path of the front garden.

"Er," With the first word, something started inside her nose. Coughing with the added pressure, she brought a hand up, and found that tissues had been screwed up her nostrils in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Embarrassed, she quickly pulled them out, and went over to the outside bin around the side of the house to dispose of them. "Sorry, if you're looking for Doctor Watson, he's at the surgery."

"You Milo 'ooper?"

She frowned, slowly turning round to face the boy. "Who's wanting to know?"

"Sherlock 'olmes."

"And what's he want with me?"

"He requires your acquaintance in Two-hundred-and-twenty-one B Baker Street." His accent struggled around the vowels and consonants of big words.

"When? Now?"

"Soon as you get the word, Mister 'ooper."

"Alright. Good lad."

Molly admired the outside face of 221B, a protruding, still rock in the steady stream of people on the busy street. Plants sat in boxes outside every window, giving it the impression that it wanted to be something it wasn't. She had a feeling that it wasn't Holmes that took care of the plants.

Deciding not to bother Mrs Hudson and let herself in, she shut the door behind her, suddenly bombarded with the quiet of the building. The muffled street noises of horses going past, people bustling about, and sellers crying out about their products. The stairs seemed almost ominous, the stained glass window at the end of the first flight casting colours across the carpet.

"Ah, Hooper. You look terrible." Were his first words. Holmes sat on a chair on one side of the desk between the windows, and Mrs Hudson was cleaning in the study/lab. She felt small ounce of disappointment when she saw that his hair was in the normal, slicked back style.

Her face fell into a sulky expression. "Thanks. You too."

"Didn't sleep well, I take it?"

"Well, not really, I went to visit Oscar."

He cocked his head. "Why would that interfere with your…" It looked like something in his mind clicked, and his eyes widened a fraction, before lowering his head back to the table.

"What is it you want, anyway?"

"You, obviously." Holmes cleared his throat. "Sit." He gestured at the chair opposite. Something that felt like her ribs contracting her vital organs signalled anxiety at the entire situation, as she did as was asked. Did he know about last night? He couldn't, she left no sign – he was flat out the entire time.

"Really, though," She made herself comfortable in the chair. "Why am I here?"

"Lessons. Chances are that Mary's insufferable _friends_ will soon break down her defences."

"What?"

"Meaning they'll want you to be introduced into society."

That was what the conversation back at the house had been about! "Well, can't I just say no?"

"Unfortunately, that won't be an option."

"I'll be gone by then, surely?"

"We can't be sure. If you're not a perfect gentleman, you could not only tarnish the Watsons' name, but garner the attention of my brother, too. It really is in your best interest not to let either of these things happen."

"I don't think I could have found a more unqualified teacher if I'd have tried."

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm well versed in the rules of society, Hooper. I just choose not to follow them. Why would I? However, they _can_ come in useful in certain situations."

How was she still so tired? She must have slept for eight hours, yet she felt a yawn coming on, that she was unable to stifle.

"Am I boring you?" He asked, eyeing her sternly.

"You want me to answer that honestly?"

"You're in a bad mood."

A sudden frown came across her face. "I'm in a perfectly normal mood."

"How long's it been since you've eaten?"

"I'm not hungry."

"That's not what I asked."

Molly's mouth twitched in annoyance, as she started to count the hours on her fingers. "Nineteen hours, around-abouts."

He shook his head. "Well, that explains it. Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes, Deary?"

Holmes glanced sideways at Hooper. It was clear that he didn't want to make the same mistake as before. "Could you please make something up for my nephew here? He hasn't eaten in quite a while."

She smiled widely. "I'll just be a few ticks." Mrs Hudson disappeared out of the door.

"Hooper, can you tell me what you did wrong when you entered my rooms?"

"What?"

"Think about it."

She drew a blank. "I-I don't…?"

"When in the presence of a woman, it is essential that you take off your hat," He leaned forward and snatched it off her head. "And address her properly."

"Why?"

"A question I often ask myself, Hooper." He dusted her hat down, and then set it down on the table. "Pray tell, can you ride?"

"Ride?"

"A horse. Can you fence? Box? Shoot? Swim? Row? Dance?"

"You really think _I'm_ capable of any a' that?"

He let out a resigned sigh. "It's even worse than I at first thought."

"Why does any of this matter? I really don't care about any of that. How's rowing gonna help me?"

Mrs Hudson appeared again, and set down a plate of piping hot food. It looked like the unused food that had been bought for breakfast; sausage, eggs, bacon. Molly's mouth started to water with the smell.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. My apologies for my rudeness when I entered, I don't seem to be in my right mind due to lack of proper sleep."

Mrs Hudson laughed, appearing to be completely taken with her version of Molly. "Oh, it really is no trouble. You're welcome here any time, Mr Hooper." She went back to the study, starting back up with the cleaning.

Molly picked up a fork and went in to attack, and –

"A moment." He held up his hand, to stop her from shovelling the food into her mouth.

Her eyes set like stone. "What now?"

"Don't put that much onto your fork. It's unsightly."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

Mrs Hudson gasped in the lab, looking up to Molly with wide eyes. Molly swallowed, and then did as he said.

"Try not to blaspheme in the company of ladies. They're fragile creatures, after all."

She tensed her jaw, her teeth interlocked and gritted. "Noted."

"Pick one thing from the plate. Mixing food is unsightly, apparently."

"Why do you lot put so much thought into eating? It's chew, and swallow. That's really all there is to it, trust me."

He rolled his eyes at her. "Yes, but most of the time, you don't have enough food to waste time making rules up to go with them, do you?"

Molly muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like 'insufferable toad', As she loaded her fork with a small bit of sausage, and put it in her mouth.

"Close your mouth when you chew. Do it slowly. Elbows off the table."

She wanted to kick something. Preferably, him.

"Good. Just like that."

She swallowed. "I never thought eating could be such hard work."

"Welcome to polite society, Hooper."

"Can we do something fun after this? I don't think you brought me here to watch me eat."

"You catch on quick." He leaned back in his seat, hands gripping onto the arms in a powerful position, eyes locking onto hers. "You know this city well, do you not?"

"Like the back of my hand, Sir."

"I regret to say it, but the odds are that you know it better than me. Do you know what coordinates are, Hooper?"

"I'm from the East End, Holmes. Not the Amazon."

"Right." He swallowed, and then produced the same pocketbook that she had held not even twenty-four hours ago. "Might these ring a bell for you?" There it was, that exact same set of letters and numbers. He hid the sketch of the beautiful woman on the other page by only holding that page to her. "Perhaps the letters stand for streets, and the numbers for house numbers?"

Molly tried to look surprised, as if she hadn't seen them before. She leaned in, narrowing her eyes. "Sorry, but I really don't know. Strange, though – the numbers don't go up very far, do they?"

"Yes, only to twenty-six. It's a clue, but to what, I'm… unsure." He muttered the last word.

"Twenty-six. Twenty-six…" What was there twenty-six of? Hell, if he didn't know, then how would she?

Holmes shook his head, snapping the pocketbook closed and sliding it back into her pocket. "Have you been looking over the alphabet that I gave you?"

"Oh, yes." Her face flushed with colour. It was embarrassing, having to learn something so simple at her age. The alphabet, for crying out loud. Stuff that toddlers learnt.

"How've you been finding it?"

His tone seemed a little bit too condescending for her liking. "Good. Brilliant, actually. It's only a few letters, anyway. Although, it's a bit fascinating, how just a few letters make up every single thing ever wrote. Every book is nothing but a jumbled up version of the alphabet. How many words even are there?" She frowned, counting on her hands as she went through.

Holmes was already there. Just staring at her.

"Twenty-six. Huh, that's – twenty-six? Could, could that be?"

He seemed a little shocked, if not embarrassed. "It's the alphabet. Obviously. Obviously!" He shot up and put a hand on the side of her face, his own lit up with excitement. "It's not co-ordinates – it's a code!"


End file.
